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HE WAS SITTING ON THE STEPS OF THE UNOPENED STORE 

(Page 7) 


A MOONSHINER’S SON 

t 



WILL ALLEN DROMGOOLE 


Author of “ The Heart of Old Hickory,” " The Valley Path/* etc. 


ILLUSTRATED BY F. A. CARTER 



THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 
PHILADELPHIA MDCCCXCVIII 


.TlWfcM 


1^615 


Copyright 1898 by The Penn Publishing Company 



TWO COPIES RtCtlyfp, 

Mrls'T'Vro 





CONTENTS 


CHAP. PAGE 

I The Settlement Store 7 

II A Signal and a Warning 22 

III It Was Grim Who Told 66 

IV A Raid 85 

V The Moonshiner’s Home 104 

VI Behind the Rainbow Falls 128 

VII The Best of Friends Must Part 142 

VIII Sylvia 164 

IX The Belated Old Stage Coach 178 

X Under the Doorstep 190 

XI Confessions 206 

XII Among New Scenes 222 

XIII First Lessons 246 

XIV The Wonderful Shops 261 

XV Progress— Changes 286 

XVI After Many Days , vw t •• 320 


\ 


A MOONSHINER’S SON 


CHAPTER I 

THE SETTLEMENT STORE 

No man on the mountain was more respected 
than old Jube Jarvis, the settlement storekeeper. 
But to no one was he quite such a hero as to 
the boy sitting on the step of the unopened 
store, in the dawn of a crisp September morn- 
ing, waiting for the owner of the establishment 
to come from the house across the road and 
“ open up.” 

He was a young fellow of not more, than 
twelve or fourteen years perhaps, yet there was 
an old look in his face that told of troubles that 
never should have knocked at the door of youth. 
The old-young face was crowned by a mass of 
reddish-brown hair that showed a golden tinge 

7 


8 


a moonshiner's son 


when the sun fell full upon it; as though 
nature, of her kindness, would have poured 
some of her own good warmth into his chilled 
little body. 

There was an uncovered porch before the 
door, and a long step that led down into the 
public road. The boy was sea ted upon the step, 
face in his palms, elbows upon his knees, lost in 
thought. 

Before him, contentedly cropping the crisping 
blades of grass, stood a gray mule without sad- 
dle or blanket, her bridle-rein lying lightly 
across the knee of her young rider. Now 
and then the boy put out his hand and stroked 
the short, glossy neck of the animal, at which 
she would leave off grazing for a moment to 
rub her nose affectionately against the well- 
patched knees of her master. Evidently mule 
and master were on the best of terms. 

Sometimes, too, the boy would rouse up from 
his dreamings and call out sharply : “ Whoa 

thar, Kit.” 

And then the mule would regard him in a kind 


THE SETTLEMENT STORE 


9 


of mild wonder, as though she said : “ How 

could you think I would do such a thing ?” 

And it was a little singular that he should 
have suspected old Kit would be guilty of slip- 
ping off home and leaving her master to tramp 
it back to the cabin on the bluff, more than 
two miles distant. 

Of a truth, the boy was not thinking of the 
mule at all, but of the storekeeper across the 
way. He was wondering how long it would be 
before he would “ open up ” the store. 

And he was telling himself that he was “ a 
great dunce for comm’ thar afore day was fairly 
broke anyhow.” And then he “ allowed granny 
would be in and about done with her breakfast 
’g’inst he could get back home.” And while he 
was thinking thus the storekeeper chanced to 
look out of his window and see the forlorn- 
looking boy sitting there in the gray mists of 
the morning with the leaves of the big maple 
tree drifting down upon him like lumps of yel- 
low gold, and what he said was: “Well, if 
thar ain’t Joe Bentley !” A moment later he 


10 


A MOONSHINERS SON 


stepped across the road and saluted his early 
customer. 

“ Mornin’, Joe.” 

Joe bounded to his feet as though the voice of 
the storekeeper had sent new life surging 
through his frame. 

“Homin’, Mr. Jarvis,” said he. “I hope 
now I didn’t wake you up, Mr. Jarvis.” 

The storekeeper thrust his iron key into the 
lock. 

“ Well,” said he, “ I had one eye open, so to 
speak. Folks all well, Joe?” 

“ Same as common, thank’e, sir,” said Joe. 
“ I reckon now I’m here toler’bly early, Mr. 
Jarvis, an’ I ought to tell you why.” 

“Better hitch your mule first, Joe,” said the 
merchant, with a sharp glance at the little old- 
young face that was telling him all too plainly 
that Joe was carrying an uncomfortable secret, 
and uncomfortable secrets were strictly forbid- 
den at Jube Jarvis’s establishment. The old 
man kept a sharp watch on the boy while he 
twisted his lines into the low, drooping branches 


THE SETTLEMENT STORE 


11 


of the maple. There was that about Joe Bent- 
ley that had always appealed to childless Jube 
Jarvis. There was something in the boy, strong 
and staunch and true, that refused to yield itself 
to the unpromising surroundings among which 
fate had placed him. But could the old man 
have seen the broad black bruises laid upon the 
young shoulders under the coarse shirt which 
granny had darned and patched and spent 
many an hour trying to make look neat, the big 
heart of him would indeed have felt for ill-used 
Joe Bentley. 

“ Got no mammy, and worse than no pappy,” 
grumbled the storekeeper, as he turned into the 
store, where Joe soon followed him. 

“ Well, son,” said Mr. Jarvis, “ something 
onusual must a-liappened to fetch you out o’ 
bed when other chaps the size o’ you-uns air 
fairly knocking it off in sleep. What can I do 
for you, Joe ?” 

Joe leaned his patched elbow upon the coun- 
ter and hesitated : how like begging his errand 
appeared now, after he had ridden so fast and 


12 


a moonshiner's son 


come so far to get it done. The merchant 
marked his hesitancy and said, encouragingly : 

“ Come, come now; I reckin it ain't anything 
to be so mightily ashamed on ?" 

“ No, sir," said Joe. “ It ain't anything 
to be ashamed on, I reckin. I have come 
over here to git one pound o' coffee for 
granny — " 

The storekeeper dropped his right arm into 
the coffee barrel. 

“Hold on tliar, Mr. Jarvis," said Joe, “I 
allers aims to be forehanded an' honest, an' I'm 
obliged to tell you I ain't got any money to pay 
for it." 

“ Psher," remarked the merchant. “ I reckin 
I ain’t grown so close-fisted as I can't spare a 
pound o' coffee to an old woman like your 
granny. For I know mighty well it ain't for 
yourse’f you’re wanting of it." 

“ No, sir," remarked Joe, “ it's for granny. 
She don’t appear to git on well without her cup 
o' mornin’s. But she don't know I come for it, 
else she wouldn't a-let me. I slipped off. 'Pears 


THE SETTLEMENT STORE 


13 


like I jest couldn’t see her suffrin for her cup — ” 
He stopped and his eyes filled. 

“ Psher,” said the merchant, “ what’s a pound 
of coffee more or less. Hand me that tliar 
scoop out o’ the shot kaig, son.” 

But Joe shook his head : 

“ I couldn’t take it that way,” said he. 
“ Granny’d send me straight back if I did. 
She’d allow it ware no more’n beggin’. An’ she 
allows nobody has got the right to be a beggar 
who has got the strength to work. She 
allows that tliar be a sort of fairness even in 
beggin’, granny does. Besides, I aimed to give 
her the coffee, and I allowed may be you-uns 
would let me work it out. I could come straight 
back, soon’s I fetched the coffee home for granny’s 
breakfast. An’ I’ll work it out full and fair ; 
’deed I will, Mr. Jarvis.” 

The storekeeper stooped down and began scoop- 
ing up the coffee : he did not measure it : there 
was no need to let the boy know that his order 
had been more than doubled. He would get full 
pay in work ; he had tried Joe Bentley before. 


14 


A MOONSHINEIi’s son 


“ Whar’d you been, Joe,” he asked while 
wrapping the coffee in a sheet of brown paper. 
“ Whar’d you been so early of a mornin’ on old 
Kit ?” Joe dropped his head and was silent ; he 
stood before his one friend the unmistakable 
image of guilty shame. 

“Well, well,” said Mr. Jarvis, “you needn’t 
tell unless you air so minded, but let us hope it 
ware a healthy, lawful business you ware out 
upon. These air mighty rough times, Joe, an’ 
a body’s got to be watchful an’ wary.” 

Joe lifted his head and looked the store- 
keeper squarely in the eye. He knew the old 
man allowed nobody to tell unlawful secrets in 
his house, and Joe half expected he might be 
kicked out, as he had seen big men kicked 
many a time, for attempting to make a confi- 
dent of old Jube. Still, he meant to make an 
explanation. 

“It ware not lawful,” said he. “It were 
wicked an’ unlawful work, an’ I knew it all tht 
time. I ware holpin’ to break the law. I tell 
you fair, Mr. Jarvis. I went — afore I came 


THE SETTLEMENT STORE 


15 


over here — I went afore day, long afore day, to 
fetch a load — ” 

“ Sh — h.” 

A shadow darkened the doorway, the shadow 
of a strange horse and rider. A man from one 
of the valley towns below, judging from his 
dress and appearance, had ridden up to the 
step and drawn rein. The storekeeper leaned 
across the counter and touched Joe’s arm. 

o 

“ Not a word more,” said he, softly. “ I 
don’t want to hear a word about it. You can’t 
allers tell what’s a-goin’ to happen, an’ if any- 
body comes here inquirin’ o’ me consarnin’ the 
rascality o’ the kentry I ain’t obligated to lie 
for nobody, an’ I won’t be. Now do you-uns 
run ’long home, an’ take the nigh cut through 
the woods, an’ don’t you be a-talkin’ too much, 
nuther.” 

He saw the gray mule trot off with her young 
rider before he returned to respond to the 
stranger’s good morning. 

“ Mornin’, stranger,” said Jube, after which 
he went behind the counter and in his best 


16 


a moonshiner's son 


business manner said to the man who had fol- 
lowed him into the store : 

“ What can I do for you, stranger ?” 

“ Why,” laughed the visitor, “ I think 
you can do a great deal. You see, my good 
friend—” 

“ My name be J arvis,” said the merchant. 

“Well, Mr. Jarvis, I am on the track of a 
great rascal.” 

The merchant waved his hand, as though to 
take in the entire premises. “ S’arch,” said he. 
“ I ain’t concealin’ nobody as air wanted, an’ I 
ain’t consortin’ with rascals, as I knows on. 
S’arch the place if you’re minded, stranger.” 

The strange man laughed again, lightly. 
“ Oh, I’m not suspecting you,” said he. As he 
spoke he threw back his coat; there was not a 
weapon in sight. The merchant noticed this, 
as the visitor intended he should. Revenue 
officers, as a general thing, came armed to the 
teeth, and under cover of darkness. Evidently 
this was not an officer, else he was one who had 
determined to avoid all the old subterfuges of 


THE SETTLEMENT STORE 


17 


his predecessors. Or else, Jube thought, he 
must be a very ignorant young fellow to so dar- 
ingly take his life in his own hands. 

“ I am not suspecting you. And, really, I 
am not exactly out upon a search to-day ; but 
I saw that boy come out of here — ” 

The storekeeper held his breath; had Joe 
really got into some trouble, lie wondered. He 
supposed the boy had merely wished to talk 
about . his father, when he shut him up so un- 
ceremoniously. He didn’t care to have Lige 
Bentley’s illicit distilling thrust upon his con- 
fidence. True, he had suspicions, had had them 
all along ; but suspicions were not facts. If 
Joe was in trouble, why, he was ready to help 
him if he could, though he was not ready to 
lie for him. He held that a man’s first obliga- 
tion is to his own honor, and that no man’s 
safety should be purchased at the expense of 
one’s own integrity. How he did hope that 
this man would ask no compromising questions. 

“ Do you know that boy ?” was the first 
question put. 

2 


18 


a moonshiner’s son 


“ Mighty well ; knowed him nigh all his life ; 
handy a chap as you ever see.” 

“ I thought so,” said the stranger. “ That is, 
I thought he looked so. And that is what made 
me suspect — ” 

The merchant drew in his breath sharply and 
waited to hear more, the heart in his bosom beat- 
ing like a trip-hammer until the stranger said : 

“ Now, do you think I could hire this boy for 
a day?” 

“ Hire him? That you couldn’t ; lie’s hired 
to me ; lie’s got to keep store.” 

“ Oh, and why didn’t you say so at the first?” 

“ Why didn’t you ax me? I answered you 
ever time you’ve put a question, an’ answered 
you truthful, stranger.” 

The man withdrew without another word ; he 
fiung himself into the saddle and gave the reins 
a jerk that sent his big bay spinning out into 
the road. Suddenly he whirled, and called to 
the old man standing in the doorway : 

“See here, my friend, I guess you’d best not 
mention my having been here.” 


THE SETTLEMENT STORE 


19 


“All right, I won’t, onless some one should ax 
me. If they ax they git the truth, let ’em hail 
from whar they will,” and with a sigh of relief 
the storekeeper returned to his boxes and barrels. 

But he was ill at ease ; something, he felt, was 
afoot; trouble was brewing for somebody, and 
he felt a vague fear that somehow Joe was not 
to escape. 

For a long time the country around had been 
infested with illicit distillers; now and then 
during later years there had been a raid, more 
or less successful ; but for the most part the 
“ wildcatters,” as they were called, or “ moon- 
shiners,” were too wary, and too well shielded, 
by the inaccessible cliffs, to feel any great alarm 
for their safety. But very lately matters were 
not moving so easily for the lawbreakers. Jube 
Jarvis had no sympathy with the illicit trade; 
he kept well out of it, and out of its secret 
hiding places. The “Revernuers” were wel- 
come to come and go, to destroy or to pass by ; 
it was nothing, personally, to old Jube. But 
this boy, Joe Bentley, was a great deal to Jube ; 


20 


a moonshiner’s son 


if danger threatened Joe, however remotely, he 
wanted to know it. 

He thought a good deal about it after the 
strange man left the store ; why had he picked 
out Joe for his service ? And how was it that 
he had chanced to come to the store at the same 
time, and such an unusual time, that Joe had 
come ? Might he not have been following him, 
spying upon him, all the morning ? And J oe 
had admitted that he had been upon an unlaw- 
ful errand. The merchant liatl grave fears. 

“ It jest won’t do,” said he : “ Joe ain’t had 
any manner o’ showin’ in this world. Though 
I aint sayin’ but what he’s got a good, smart 
old grandmother that aims to do right by 
him. But he’s young an’ onwary. If that tliar 
saft-speakin’ youngster should overtake Joe on 
the road, he would, like as not up an’ confide to 
him ever thing he knows, an’ git liisse’f into no 
end o’ trouble, may be. I’m good mind to close 
up an’ go after him.” 

Then he remembered that he had cautioned 
Joe to keep the trail, or “ nigh cut,” through 


THE SETTLEMENT STORE 


21 


the woods. This trail, both narrow and steep, 
had been made by the adventurous cattle herders 
on Hickorynut mountain, who were wont to come 
across to the settlement Saturday afternoons for 
supplies. It shortened the distance to Lige Bent- 
ley’s cabin by more than a mile ; and sure-footed 
old Kit was not afraid of its steeps and windings. 

“If Joe keeps to the trail he’ll be safe enough,” 
said the merchant ; “ an’ ’gainst he strikes the 
big road on the way back thar’ll be too many o’ 
the mount’n boys round to make it healthy for 
strangers wearin’ store clothes, I reckin.” 

At that moment there came to him the sound 
of a horn ; a soft blast, blown from the doorway 
of the house across the road ; he knew that it 
meant his breakfast was ready. 

He went out, drawing the door after him, and 
stood a moment watching the long, yellow road 
from the settlement. Another blast from the 
horn reminded him that his cakes were cooling. 
Still he lingered, watching for Joe. But there 
was nothing to be seen save that straight, broad 
line of yellow sand gleaming in the sunlight. 


CHAPTER II 


A SIGNAL AND A WARNING 

There was to be a gander-pulling in the 
neighborhood that day, and the storekeeper 
knew that all the people for miles around would 
be on hand to see the fun. The boys from 
down on Brushy Creek, to say nothing of those 
over on Pine Knot mountain, would turn out in 
full force ; for fun was scarce, and to the 
mountaineers there are few things so diverting 
as a gander-pulling. 

The storekeeper had reckoned upon the crowd 
that would visit the store that morning, and was 
not sorry that he was to have Joe’s assistance. 
For although the entertainment was not to come 
off until afternoon, the crowd would come early 
in the morning, bringing their dinners and 
making an all-day trip of it. The forenoon, for 
the most part, would be spent at the store ; not 
22 


A SIGNAL AND A WARNING 


23 


so much in trading as in friendly gossip, 
though the women, to be sure, would bring 
their dried fruit and “ spun truck ” along to 
barter with old Jube for sugar and coffee and 
molasses. 

The merchant gave a sigh of genuine relief as 
he approached the store and saw through the 
open door, Joe’s cheery face beaming above the 
counter. The place had been carefully swept, 
and already there were two visitors occupying 
the shuck-bottomed chairs set convenient for 
customers just without the door. 

“ I would have come over an’ told you, Mr. 
Jarvis,” said Joe ; “ but they-uns allowed they’d 
only come to set a spell, an’ not to trade ; an’ 
so I didn’t see no call for startin’ of you up from 
your breakfast. I allowed as may be I could 
wait on sech as come before you got back. But 
tliar ain’t been a blessed soul exceptin’ of Mr. 
Long out thar an’ Jem.” 

Jube recognized the early visitors as a man 
and his son, said to be in league with a certain 
distiller by the name of Dawson, who was sup- 


24 


a moonshiner’s son 


posed to be operating a still some miles away 
among the hills. He had scarcely time to 
more than say good-morning, however, before 
others began to come in, some to gossip, some 
to trade, and ere long the little store was 
crowded. 

Among the very first to arrive was an old 
woman by the name of Martin, Polly Martin, 
known throughout the neighborhood for the 
sharpness of her tongue, as well as of her wits. 
She came up, panting and blowing from her 
long tramp, plumped an open-mouthed jar 
down on the step, nodded to the assembled 
neighbors and went into the store, carrying a 
roll of yellow yarn, some home-knit socks, and 
a bag of dried fruit, which she had brought to 
barter for certain necessary articles, after the 
custom of the mountaineers. She entered with 
a brusque, business-like air, and a semblance of 
extreme good humor ; but the practiced eye of 
the storekeeper saw the anxiety underlying 
the make-believe lightness. 

“ Mornin’, folkses ! mornin’, Jube !” was her 


A SIGNAL AND A WARNING 


25 


greeting. “ Got any time to fritter away on a 
ole woman like me, Jube? Then stir your 
stumps, man, an’ let me get along back home. 
The men folkses at my place air plumb set on 
goin’ to the gander-pullin’ this evenin’,, an’ I’m 
obleeged to git back an’ stay long o’ the chillen, 
an’ the house, so as they-uns can go. It won’t do 
to disapp’int the men folkses, I tell you ; the men 
folkses an’ the gander. Why, I a’most mis- 
doubts that thar gander could get its own con- 
sent to have its neck pulled without the men 
from my place. ’Pears like the gander would 
sort o’ know it would be a disapp’intin’ occa- 
sion. Want some socks to-day, Jube ? I’m 
plumb set on havin’ some sorghum for the 
chillen. We-uns ain’t got a drap. The last I 
got ware not good. I tromped five mile an’ 
better to git it ; over to Yarbrough’s. An’ 
Yarbrough don’t measure fair, nuther. So 
this mornin’ I says to the chillen, says I, 
4 Jube Jarvis gives fair measure, an’ I be goin’ 
over to trade with J ube. An’ here I be.’ ” 

The storekeeper grunted, as he proceeded to 


26 


a moonshiner’s son 


unwrap the bundle of yarn. “ Since you ware 
so set on tradin’ along o’ me,” said he, “ wliyn’t 
you fetch them tliar eggs here las’ Christmas, 
as you promised to do ?” 

“ Laws-a-massy, Jube, ain’t you-uns forgot 
them eggs yit? Why, they’d a been e’t up 
long ago, or else sp’iled. What diffe’nce can it 
make this late day ?” 

“ It makes the diffe’nce of a pramise,” said 
Jube. “ I allers keep my word to folkses, an’ I 
look to others to keep thar word to me. What 
air you wantin’ for this truck, Mis’ Martin ?” 

“Some sorghum, Jube. Thar’s the jar for it 
outside the door. I ware that fagged out I 
couldn’t fetch it another step. I want some sor- 
ghum an’ a mite o’ coffee. Then I want a slip 
o’ bacon for the apples. An’ I allowed as may 
be you-uns’d fling in a box o’ snuff. I ain’t 
had a good dip since I traded for that thar box 
last summer. Do you rickerlect, Jube?” 

“ I ain’t goin’ to throw in a blessed thing,” 
declared the storekeeper. “ I aims to be fair, 
an’ may be generous, with my own customers, 


A SIGNAL AND A WARNING 


27 


but I ain’t obligated to make presents to Jim 
Yarbrough’s customers. You-uns can go over 
tliar fur snuff. I’ll fill the jar an’ let you 
have the meat, but I ain’t thro win’ in no 
extrys.” 

It was a small thing, merely an incident in 
the day’s happenings. There was a touch of 
surliness about it, Too, that appealed to the mer- 
chant’s sense of fairness, making him half 
regret what he had done when he saw the old 
woman start on her long tramp to the desolate 
cabin among the crags. In winter, when the 
trees were stripped of their foliage, he could see 
the brown cabin perched upon the steep bluffs, in 
the rear of the store, like a great ungainly 
vulture ready to swoop down upon the un- 
suspecting little settlement. It was scarcely a 
half-mile distant straight up the bluffs, but the 
crags were bold and steep, and the three-mile 
tramp by the public road was less fatiguing than 
any attempt to scale those almost inaccessible 
heights. 

The storekeeper felt himself a brute to refuse 


28 


a moonshiner's son 


the snuff ; it would have made a welcome com- 
panion on that long, tiresome trip. He hadn’t 
a doubt but that was what had brought her to 
the store ; and he had a suspicion that she had 
stolen away to the settlement without the knowl- 
edge of her husband, for she generally did 
her trading at a distant settlement on the other 
side of the bluff, with a merchant by the name 
of Yarbrough. Yarbrough was close and grasp- 
ing, and Jube knew that it was old Martin who 
made his wife do her trading there ; he and Jube 
had quarreled some time since, and after that old 
Mrs. Martin never came to the settlement except 
on sucli occasions as she could “ slip off,” un- 
known to the old man. She had relied upon 
Jube’s generosity to throw in the snuff. Jube 
was disgusted with himself; he thought once of 
sending Joe to run and overtake her with the 
box, but some one came in and it slipped his 
mind. 

A little thing, merely a box of disgusting, 
yellow snuff ; yet, could he have foreseen the part 
it was to play in the day’s proceedings he would 


A SIGNAL AND A WARNING 


29 


indeed have felt, as he said, “ that you can’t 
allers tellwliar a little, small act will end.” 

The new arrival who distracted the store- 
keeper’s attention from the episode of the snuff 
was a young man, who, at a glance, the mer- 
chant supposed to be a stranger. But a second 
look convinced him there was something odd, 
and not altogether unfamiliar, in the man’s 
appearance. The mass of yellow hair that 
crowned his rather shapely head didn’t appear 
to have just a natural set ; and the hands, 
though dark, were too small to belong to the 
mountaineers. In an instant the storekeeper 
recognized the fact that this new arrival was 
disguised. 

He asked for a “ plug of chawing tobaccy ” 
in such a very natural drawl, however, that for 
a moment the merchant almost doubted the dis- 
guise. 

He paid for his purchase, bit off a great hunk 
of it, and strolling over to an empty, upturned 
cracker box, dropped leisurely down upon it 
as though he had merely stopped in, in a 


m 


a moonshiner’s son 


most natural way, to liear the gossip of the 
day. 

Close upon his heels came Dawson, the moon- 
shiner, who seldom showed himself about the 
settlement, and whose coming at this moment 
filled Jube’s heart with forebodings of trouble. 

Dawson stood leaning a moment against the 
counter, watching the stranger through his ugly, 
swollen lids. His two confederates, Long and 
his son, moved their chairs nearer the open 
door, thus commanding a view of the entire 
store. 

And all the time that Dawson was eyeing the 
strange man, the stranger Avas watching Joe 
Bentley. Many times Joe had passed him, 
brushing him more than once in the crowd, as 
he went in and out carrying bundles to the 
wagons of the customers, hitching horses for the 
women, and sometimes carrying a pail full of 
water to some thirsty traveler en route to the 
gander-pulling. 

And Jube — keen-eyed, sharp-witted old Jube 
Jarvis — was watching the entire proceedings; 


A SIGNAL AND A WARNING 


31 


and always with an eye single to the safety of 
his young assistant. 

When the rush of custom had subsided some- 
what, Dawson addressed the merchant : 

“ Had many callers this mornin’, Jube ?” 

“ Diglit sharp,” was the reply, given with 
indifferent interest. 

“ Didn’t any come afore you ware up, I reck- 
in, did they, Jube?” said old man Long from 
the doorw r ay 

The storekeeper looked up just in time to catch 
the unmistakable wink that passed between him 
and Dawson. But he was quite ready for them. 

“ Why, yes,” said he, in the same tone of 
indifference ; “ I did have a customer, so to 
speak, afore I ware fairly up this mornin’. Come 
in a mighty hurry, ridin’ a right peart nag, an’ 
didn’t stop powerful long, nuther.” 

A shade of purple seemed to gather under the 
red of Dawson’s skin, as he demanded to know 
who the customer was. 

“ Who ware it ?” said he. “ Who ware it 
come a-tradin’ so early ?” 


32 


a moonshiner’s son 


The merchant glanced at the young clerk, 
measuring at that moment a peck of dried beans 
into a bag, and said : 

“ Why, Joe, thar.” 

“ Joe ?” 

“Yes, Joe Bentley; come to git some coffee 
for his granny afore settin’ in for his day’s 
work. An’ the spry young nag he rid over, 
why, it’s tethered out thar somewliars, I reckin. 
She answers to the name of Kit, if you’re 
wantin’ to talk to her.” 

There was a laugh among the men, at Daw- 
son’s expense; even the big distiller himself 
smiled at the storekeeper’s wit, and not one of 
them thought to inquire if Joe was the only cus- 
tomer who had called in the early hours of the 
morning. Jube had his answer ready, but as 
nobody put the question he said no more; only 
to tell himself that it was “ none of his business 
to remind them of their oversight.” 

At that moment he chanced to look at the 
man on the cracker box. Did the fellow give 
him a wink before dropping his gaze to the 


A SIGNAL AND A WARNING 


33 


floor? A moment later, on some pretext of 
looking for something on that side of the room, 
Jube approached the stranger and gave him a 
more critical survey. In dress he was a typical 
mountaineer, wearing a suit of brownish-gray 
jeans, a loose frock coat, old, and somewhat 
patched ; a red necktie, considerably crumpled, 
and a slouch hat, rammed in, sugar-loaf fashion, 
topping the shock of yellow hair. 

About this time one of the men about the 
door called out in friendly salutation : 

“ Hello, stranger ; whar’d you hail from ?” 

The man on the box replied in the very 
purest dialect : 

“ From over on Cooney, down yander.” 

“ Come a-pleasurin’ ?” said Dawson. 

“ Come to see the gyander-pullin’,” was the 
reply. 

After this the talk became general, the inter- 
est shifting to the gander that was expected to 
furnish sport for the afternoon. 

Some “ allowed ” that Jim Teik would get the 
gander's neck “ first pull ; ” while others main- 
3 


34 


a moonshiner’s son 


tained that “Lusli Simmons would never so 
much as let Teik git his fingers greased,” if 
Lush should be so lucky as to “ draw his pull 
before Teik’s chance came.” 

In the general discussion the visitor from 
Cooney was really forgotten. And evidently 
the visitor from Cooney forgot himself ; in fact 
he must have forgotten that he was from Cooney 
at all, and a mountaineer, and supposed to know 
all about gander-pullings. For as the interest 
waxed warmer, he tilted himself back as grace- 
fully as the backless box would admit of his 
doing, and called out to the astonished assembly, 
regardless of dialect and forgetful of conse- 
quences : 

“ How is it done, gentlemen ? How is the 
gander pulled ?” 

A full dozen bounded to their feet, in sheer 
astonishment. Dawson slipped his hand down 
to the hilt of the blade in his belt and waited 
developments. 

“ Live on Cooney an’ never see a gander- 
pullin ’ ?” said one. 


A SIGNAL AND A WARNING 


35 


“ Why Cooney Creek air gander heaven/’ 
declared another. While a third laughed out- 
right, and declared : “ Why, my grandad used 

to live on Cooney Creek, an’ his old woman 
p’intedly raised ganders for a livin’ ; the boys 
ware that give to pullin’ of ’em. Whar’s your 
mammy, son, that you-uns ain’t never see a gan- 
der-pullin’ ?” 

It was Dawson, however, who really answered 
the stranger’s question ; he squared himself in the 
sunlighted doorway, his hand toying with the bit 
of yellow horn hilt visible at his belt, and said : 

“Well, stranger — ” 

There was just the faintest glimmer of steel 
below the knife’s hilt, but the stranger only 
smiled in an innocent, boyish way and said : 

“ Well, I’m a-listnin’ to you.” 

“ Well, then,” said Dawson, “ we pull ’em here 
right frequent. If a gander don’t come real 
handy we jest pull somethin’ else instid. The 
way we do it air this : we first find out if he’s 
a good bird for neck twistin’, fitten for nothin’ 
else more’n likely, an then we grease his neck 


36 


a moonshiner's son 


right good and swing him up by his feet, if he's 
a sure 'nougli gander. Then the boys mount 
thar horses, and then the ‘ringmaster,' as they 
say in the circus, he gives the nag a whack with 
a raw hide that sends him spinnin' under the 
gander's tree whar he air swung to, an’ the 
rider has to make a lunge at that thar greased 
neck o’ the gander’s. That's the way we pull 
ganders in this country, stranger, only we don't 
allers stop to grease thar necks. 'Pends on who 
air the ringmaster. But you-uns come on an' see 
the pullin’ this evenin' ; we’ll pull one jest to 
pleasure you ; maybe we'll pull two." 

There was ugly meaning in Dawson’s words, 
but the stranger did not show the faintest sign 
that he failed to take the description in good 
part ; his reply contained more regret for his 
own ignorance than any doubt of Dawson's 
sincerity ; 

“ We-uns aint been livin'on Cooney very long, 
an' thar waren’t any gander-pullin’ whar I ware 
raised. I mean to see this one though, for sure 
an' sartain." 


A SIGNAL AND A WARNING 


37 


He got up after awhile, and went off in the 
direction of the place selected for the day's sport, 
about a half-mile beyond the settlement. Others 
began to drop off soon, and before twelve o'clock 
only the proprietor and Joe were left in the 
store. 

When the last old woman had ridden away 
on a sway-back mare with a long-legged colt at 
her heels, a carpet-bag satchel swung to the 
horn of the saddle, and a mop between the 
gums of the toothless rider, Mr. Jarvis called 
Joe to him. 

“ Want to go to the gander-pullin', Joe?" 
said he. 

“ No, sir," Joe replied with suspicious promj)t- 
ness. 

“ Go if you want to," said the merchant ; “ go 
if you want to." 

But Joe shook his head. 

“Granny said I ware not to go," said he. 
“ Granny allowed that thar ware not any sport 
but only cruelty in treatin' of ganders that way : 
an’ she said we-uns had had trouble an' suff’rin’ 


38 


A MOONSHINER S SON 


enough without wantin’ to make pleasure out 
o’ the suffering o’ others : though it mightn’t be 
nothin’ but a foolish old gander. I’d ruther stay 
here after granny said that, an’ tend the store. 
But you go on, Mr. Jarvis, I can take keer o’ 
things. You go on to the pullin’.” 

“ An’ what makes you allow I could find my 
pleasure in the suffrin’s of one o’ God A’mighty’s 
critters ?” demanded the storekeeper. 

Joe colored : 

“ I didn’t mean that thar,” said he quickly. 
“ Some folks allow ganders don’t count noliows, 
being as they-uns have got to die anyway. An’ 
some say they haven’t got any reasonin’ an’ 
don’t know if they air ill-treated, an’ I have 
heard say ganders can’t die.” 

The merchant grunted : 

“ Heard that from them as likes to see 
the pullin’ o’ thar necks, I reckin. Most 
folkses cut thar cloth to hide thar own deform- 
ities, Joe, jest you rickerlect that. Now I’m 
a-goin’ over yander to see that thar gander die. 
He ain’t any relation o’ mine, as I knows on ; 


A SIGNAL AND A WARNING 


39 


an’ no matter what the kinship air, I’m a-goin’ 
to see him die. You run oyer to the house an’ 
tell Sary to give you a bite o’ dinner : then 
skip back here an’ I’ll go and eat, an’ then keep 
right on to the pullin’. I sha’n’t be gone mighty 
long : an’ if anybody comes along here askin’ 
after me, do you jest say I’ve gone to the gan- 
der-pullin’, an’ if anybody comes wantin’ to 
hire you-uns, jest tell ’em you’re hired to me : 
for two days. I reckin you didn’t know I put 
two pounds o’ coffee in that thar package this 
morning. Well, I did : an’ I claim you for two 
days to pay for it. So thar.” 

“ Now, Mr. Jarvis,” said Joe earnestly, “ I’m 
pow’ful sorry you done that. I can’t come 
to-morrow, for true. I’ve got to — got to — why ? 
I’m obligated to work somewhars else to-mor- 
row.” 

“ Whar ?” demanded the merchant. “ Whar 
have you got to work so suddent?” 

Joe hesitated, and glanced apprehensively at 
the yellow sand of the road outside. Somehow 
lie always seemed to feel the sole of Jube’s big 


40 


a moonshiner’s son 


boot whenever lie looked at that sandy road. He 
had seen grown up men go spinning out into it, 
helped along by that same boot : he fancied that 
a boy of his size might never stop short of the 
tops of the big maple tree, if old Jube decided to 
kick him out. 

He fancied, too, that Jube must know of his 
father’s still : it had been running for several 
years. Yet he dared not tell the old man that 
his father had ordered him to haul a load of ap- 
ples to the still the very next morning ; and to 
remain there and help the men with some mash 
they were making. 

The boy’s embarrassment misled the store- 
keeper : his thought was that the stranger of 
the early morning had intercepted Joe after all, 
and that he was about to step into some trap 
that had been laid for him. 

He laid his hand on the boy’s arm. 

“See here, Joe,” said he, “ me an’ my old 
woman have allers had a feelin’ for-you-uns, 
seein’ as you ain’t got any mammy, an’ worse 
than no pappy. You ain’t had much show in 


A SIGNAL AND A WARNING 


41 


this world, an’ I’ve been thinkin’ that some time 
maybe you’ll be tellin’ youse’f that you ain’t 
to blame for doin’ of things aginst the law, an’ 
secli as that. Now I want to tell you that you 
will be to blame. The law’ll hold you jest as 
guilty as it holds the meanest of its critters who 
go an’ do the same thing you-uns may do. An’ 
the good Lord ain’t goin’ to hold you innercent, 
nuther, beca’se he has give you the gift of 
reasonin’, an’ of knowin’ right from wrong. 
He ain’t goin’ to hold no soul innercent on 
which he has bestowed the gift of conscience. 
Now, do you rickerlect that ! Now, I’m goin’ 
to be gone a bit, an’ if anybody comes a-snakin’ 
in here try in’ to toll you off, or hire you, do you 
jest say Jube Jarvis won’t let you off, an’ 
that’ll end it. An’ mind you don’t do any 
extry tongue work, nuther, whilest I’m gone. 
Run on, now, an’ git your dinner.” 

At the door Joe turned, stopped. 

“Mr. Jarvis,” said he, “I’m obleeged to 
work at — at home to-morrow. Leastways father 
— said — said — ” 


42 


a moonshiner’s son 


“ Oh, at home !” said the merchant. “ Whyn’t 
you say so at first? Well, you needn’t be 
worryin’ about that. I’m tliinkin’ they won’t 
need you to-morrow, Joe.” 

Joe hadn’t the faintest idea what he meant, 
but he was very glad to think the storekeeper 
might be right, and that he should be at liberty 
to work at the store. And he felt glad, too, 
now that he could see his way to paying for it, 
that granny had her coffee for some days ta 
come. 

When the merchant had gone off to the 
gander-pulling, and no other customers came 
in, Joe began to feel lonely. The very silence, 
after the noisy crowd, had a loneliness about it, 
and the parting admonition of the storekeeper, 
too, served to make the boy thoughtful. The 
earnest words had sunk deep into his heart, fill- 
ing it with a strange half fear of something 
that might, perhaps, be threatening his own 
peace. 

He became almost afraid of the familiar old 
store itself after awhile. The big barrels as- 


A SIGNAL AND A WARNING 


43 


sumed a certain aspect of awe, as though they 
could foresee the trouble ahead, and would 
have warned him if they could. 

After struggling for half an hour with the 
feeling, which he told himself was mere coward- 
ice, he went out and took a seat in one of the 
vacant chairs on the little porch, and gave him- 
self up to reflection. He had been unhappy 
enough carrying that fearful secret of the hid- 
den still over on the Rainbow Falls; but now 
the thought that God would not hold him 
guiltless filled him with a fear infinitely 
more dreadful than any fear of man’s broken 
laws. 

What could he do? Refuse to haul the 
apples that made him a party to the unlawful 
business ? That would be to bring down upon 
himself the wrath of his father, with such pun- 
ishment as he did not now feel able to bear. 
And already the men were clamoring for more 
of his time. He was “ too saft,” they declared ; 
too much “afeard of his shadder,” and “too 
good to be real trusty.” He might consider it 


44 


a moonshiner’s son 


his duty, they declared, to “up an’ give the 
still away some time.” 

So they demanded that he should be made to 
feel himself a partner in the business, a law- 
breaker as well as they, since this was the only 
sure means of “ stopping his mouth.” 

“ After awhile,” they said, “ when he’s older, 
he’ll see things different.” After awhile they 
knew that his tender conscience would have 
become hardened and he would indeed be one 
of them. “ Unless,” they always added, “ Lige 
don’t make out to kill him first, in a drunken 
temper.” 

Defy men like that ? The mere thought of it 
brought to him the memory of the rawhide; 
he winced, as though lie could feel it cutting 
into his flesh. Once he thought of running 
away : but he remembered granny, and gave up 
that plan of escape at once. Suddenly a clatter 
of hoofs, muffled somewhat by the sandy road, 
broke in upon his thought. A moment later 
the tawny mane of a great claybank gelding, 
side by side with a gallant roan, dashed into 


A SIGNAL AND A WAKNING 


45 


sight. The horses were strange to the com- 
munity : Joe recognized on the instant that 
both animals and riders were from a distance. 
No such steeds were ever seen among those 
rocky ways : great glossy-limbed, foam-flecked 
creatures that seemed to take hold upon the 
solid earth with their strong, shapely feet. Joe 
watched them in fascinated surprise for a mo- 
ment. As they drew nearer he saw that they 
were mud-spattered and somewhat overheated, 
as though they had traveled far and fast. 

They galloped straight up to the settlement 
store where Joe was sitting, and stopped. 
Then, for the first time, Joe remembered that 
they might be members of the revenue service. 

He had scarcely drawn his breath, however, 
before one of the men addressed him : 

“ Hello, bub,” said the rider of the claybank, 
“ where’s the boss ?” 

Instantly Joe remembered the storekeeper’s 
warning and instructions : 

“ Gone ter the gander-puilin,” said he. 

The men seemed disturbed for a moment : 


46 


a moonshiner’s son 


they held a short, half-whispered consulta- 
tion, then the one who had spoken to Joe said : 

“ Could we get a drink of water here, bub ?” 

Joe replied, without moving from his chair : 

“ Thar ain’t any water here fitten ter drink, 
an’ I can’t leave the store ter fetch any. Thar 
was a pail, full and fresh ; but Jim Sanderson’s 
coon got in it an’ washed his hands, an’ it aint 
fitten ter drink. Thar’s a spring right over tliar 
cross the road, an’ a new gourd : ye can get a 
drink thar.” 

Joe gave this information without the faintest 
show of interest : the strangers might have 
been discouraged as to further conversation 
had their business not been so urgent. 

“ See here, bub,” said one, “ we are mighty 
sorry to have missed Mr. Jarvis. But maybe 
you can tell us the way to the Eastop place. It 
is out this way somewhere?” 

Joe shook his head: “ Don’t know nothin’ 
’bout it.” 

The strangers held another whispered con- 
sultation, then turned to Joe again : 


A SIGNAL AND A WARNING 


47 


“ See here, bub, can’t we hire you awhile ?” 

Joe started, and almost tumbled off his chair : 
he was wondering how on earth Mr. Jarvis 
knew what these men were going to say to him. 
Evidently he did know, and that was sufficient 
to prompt Joe to reply without hesitation, and 
in a way that admitted of no argument : 

“ No, sir,” said he, “ ye can’t. I’m hired here : 
ter keep store.” 

“ To-morrow, then,” said the stranger; “see 
here !” He ran his hand into his pocket and 
drew out a half-dozen silver coins. He held 
up a bright new dollar. “ I’ll give you, say five 
of these, for a day’s work ; if you do it well I’ll 
make it ten !” 

To a boy brought up in simple, humble ways, 
as Joe had been, the money did not possess any 
very great temptation, although he under- 
stood that those ten dollars would bring many 
things into the little cabin on the bluff hitherto 
unknown there. With those pieces of silver 
safely hidden away from his father’s eye, his 
grandmother would be sure of her coffee for 


48 


A MOONSHINER S SON 


many a day, when Lige was drunk and would 
not allow them to send to the store for it. He 
thought of the new tools they would add to the 
little chest under granny’s bed, and of the 
tobacco with which they would supply her pipe, 
if only they were his. He thought very quickly, 
however, and not once with any idea of accept- 
ing the offer tendered him ; he was already 
hired; that was sufficient reason for refusal, 
without Mr. Jarvis’s special warning. He shook 
his yellow-crowned head, therefore, and replied 
with dogged persistence : 

“ I ain’t fur hire to-morrer nuther ; I’m hired 
here already to Mr. J arvis ; I done told you 
onc’t.” 

With this they understood that he was regu- 
larly employed at the store and at once changed 
their offer. 

“ Well, then, we must find Mr. Jarvis,” said 
the gentleman who was astride the roan. 
“ Scoot down from there, youngster, and pilot us 
to the place where they are having the gander- 
pulling and you get that.” 


A SIGNAL AND A WARNING 


49 


He flipped a dollar at him with his thumb 
and forefinger as he spoke. The silver struck 
Joe’s knee and fell upon the floor, where it 
made a dozen little revolutions in the sunlight 
before it lay at the boy’s feet with the goddess of 
liberty staring at him in a sort of injured sur- 
prise. 

Joe merely glanced at the money without 
stirring from his place. 

“ I’m obligated to stay right here,” said he, 
“ and I aim to stay. I mostly tries to do what 
I’m obligated to do ; but you-uns can find the 
gander-pullin’ easy enough ; keep straight 
ahead that thar road right before you till you 
come to a big boulder ’longside the way ; storm 
flung it off the bluff one night an’ left it thar. 
When you git to the boulder, turn to the left 
and thar’s the gander pullin’.” 

He stooped, picked up the silver, handed it 
back to its owner, and then went immediately 
into the store. He had suddenly remembered 
Jube’s last warning, “ not to talk too much.” 

“ Seems to me,” he told himself, as he moved 

4 


50 


a moonshiner’s son 


among the familiar boxes in the rear of the 
house, “ seems to me the kentry air full of gun- 
jDOwder, ready to go off.” 

The strange men parleyeci a moment at the 
door. 

“ It isn’t any earthly use,” said one, “ to try 
to make it without the hoy. With that hoy as 
a guide we could go right into the midst of 
them, two attorneys, as it were, securing evi- 
dence concerning the late murder at the Eastop 
place — Hush !” 

From the crags in the rear of the store came 
the sound of a horn — a long, mellow note, fol- 
lowed by three short, sharp, commanding ones. 
Again, and yet a third time it was repeated : 
that strange, commanding melody, and always 
precisely the same note, in precisely the same 
time. The men started ; the horn was a signal, 
a warning to some one, somewhere. 

Joe, bending over a nail keg, heard it and 
turned a startled face to the door. At that mo- 
ment a man came running from the woods across 
the road. He was carrying a gun, and a long 


A SIGNAL AND A WARNING 


51 


hunting knife was in his belt. He gesticulated 
wildly to the men sitting on their horses be- 
fore the door of the store, and shouted a warn- 
ing that came distinctly to Joe’s ears : 

“ For your lives — ride !” 

The next instant the strangers had put spurs 
to their horses and were galloping down the 
mountain in a cloud of yellow dust, as fast as 
their steeds could carry them ; riding for their 
lives. The horn was a signal from some point, 
warning the wildcatters that the revenue officers 
were on their track. Joe recognized it at once 
as the signal agreed upon among these daring 
violators of the law. But if the officers had 
an enemy who was spying upon them they 
likewise had an ally, and Joe Bentley had 
recognized in that ally Joyce Grim, one of 
the most regular patrons of the various illicit 
establishments scattered throughout the moun- 
tain. 

The officers had taken to flight at once ; when 
they were well out of sight Grim strolled 
leisurely into the store and asked for some 


52 


A MOONSHINER S SON 


tobacco. Having paid for it, he dropped with a 
great pretense of weariness upon the cracker 
box where earlier in the day the stranger from 
Cooney had sat, and began to tell Joe of a 
thrilling fox hunt that he had been enjoying. 
“ T’ware away over yander on Pant’er Creek,” 
he declared. “ I tromped all night long to git 
here in time to holp pay complimints to that 
thar gyander-pullin , , an’ come up jest in time to 
miss it at the last. Jest my luck ; allers my 
luck. Never had no luck at nuthin’, nohows. 
Didn’t git no fox nuther, the blame critter run 
itse’f into a bresh heap sech as no respectable 
dog would go into after it. Had to give it up ; 
gander same way. Well, well ! I reckin I’ll 
jest set here an’ keep you-uns comp’ny till the 
rest come back, Joe.” 

Joe said nothing ; he knew well enough that 
Grim’s sharp, little black eyes were fixed upon 
him, and he almost trembled lest they should 
probe the terrible secret of which he had acci- 
dentally become possessed. He knew that this 
was what had brought the man into the store ; 


A SIGNAL AND A WARNING 


53 


to learn whether Joe had seen and heard that 
which he had done. And he had seen the 
signal and had heard the warning ; he under- 
stood that the men were revenue officers, and 
that Joyce was an informer, a spy. Joe knew 
also that this meant certain death if once the 
spy should come within the power of the moon- 
shiners. Grim’s doom was sealed, as sure as 
fate, if information came to their ears concerning 
that signal, and that three-word warning : “ For 
your lives !” 

Joe was too startled to quite understand what 
he meant to do, but he knew that Grim must not 
know that he had seen or heard. He tried to 
speak of other things; to ask about the fox 
hunt; but somehow his tongue refused to obey 
him. Had he spoken at all he felt that he 
would have shrieked out, loud enough to be 
heard at the gander-pulling, half mile away ; 
and what he said would be : “ What made you 

do it? Don’t you know they will hang you for 
telling where the stills are hid ?” It seemed to 
him ages that he sat there trying to ask about 


54 


A MOONSHINER S SON 


the fox hunt over on Panther Creek, and saying 
nothing ; in reality it was not three minutes. 

Suddenly the informer lifted himself with a 
bound to his feet and reached for his knife. He 
had caught the expression of fear in Joe’s face. 

“ What do ye know ?” he hissed. “ What 
did ye see ? What did ye hear ? Out with it, 
ye saft-spoke kid ye, afore I rip it from ye with 
my knife. An’ you got to swear you wont tell 
it, no matter who may ask you. I ain’t ’told on 
your pappy noliows. Swear, I tell you, afore 
I come any nigher.” 

The informer gave the knife a threatening 
turn as he drew nearer. Evidently he supposed 
he had only a “ kid,” as he said, to deal with. 
But Joe was not so a soft” as Grim had sup- 
posed. He sprang back, squared himself against 
the wall, and doubled his fists : 

“ Stan’ back tliar, Joyce Grim,” said he, 
“ Stan’ back thar, I tell you, You’ll find it a 
mighty sorry day for you if you lay that thar 
knife on me.” 

Whether the threat was merely to frighten 


A SIGNAL AND A WARNING 55 

him into silence, or whether there was some- 
thing that appealed to him in the sight of the 
boy, ready, single handed, to fight for his life, 
Joe did not know, but sullenly Joyce stopped 
and slowly sheathed his knife. 

“ Now,” said he, “ ain’t you a pretty baby to 
come a-bullyin’ of a man my size.” 

“ An’ ain’t you a pretty coward,” said Joe “ to 
come a-threatenin’ of a boy my size ? A mighty 
brave man you. Maybe you think beca’se I’m 
‘saft’ I won’t fight nuther, but don’t you be 
befoolin of yourse’f, thinkin’ as I’ll stand by an’ 
whimper whilest you-uns tries to skeer me ; or 
maybe kill me with that thar huntin’ knife o’ 
yourn. But I will ; I’ll fight till I drap in my 
tracks, ’fore I’ll let a bully like you-uns be 
inrposin’ on me wrongful. Stan’ back thar, I 
tell you. Wliyn’t you gimme time to answer 
you ? No ; I won’t lie for nobody ; an’ I wont 
swear nuther ; not for nobody, let alone you- 
uns. You ax me what I see an’ heeard ? Well, 
I see you-uns — ” 

Sliet up thar !” yelled Grim ; “ if you don’t 


56 


a moonshiner’s son 


want your mouth shet for you. Bawlin’ out to 
the whole — ” 

A step sounded outside, perhaps Grim had 
heard it, and a stout, familiar figure filled the 
doorway. 

“ How now ? What’s up ? What’s all this 
here row in my house mean ? What you doin’ 
here, Grim ?” 

Jube Jarvis stood in the door, his usually 
pleasant face angry and threatening ; he glanced 
at the visitor, dogged and sullen enough he 
looked now, and then at Joe, braced against the 
wall, with his eyes full of anger and his hands 
still drawn up into fists. 

“ He come at me with his knife,” said Joe. “ He 
come at me with his knife, Mr. Jarvis, an’ allowed 
I ware a ‘ saft-spoke kid ’ beca’se I see him — ” 

Jube Jarvis didn’t care to shoulder Grim’s 
deadly secret ; he didn’t wait for Joe to finish, 
he merely stepped across the room, lifted his 
big cowhide boot and sent his last customer fly- 
ing through the open door like a spent sky 
rocket on the home trip. 


A SIGNAL AND A WARNING 57 

He landed in front of the horses of a 
party returning from the gander-pulling, and a 
loud guffaw greeted his descent, head foremost 
in the yellow sand. 

They jibed and joked him without mercy as 
he struggled to his feet spitting the sand from 
his mouth, and shaking it from his hair ; while 
more than one rider wondered to his neighbor 
who “ Joyce Grim had been a-trying to fight in 
Jube Jarvis’s store, to make the ole man kick 
him out.” 

That kick, however, did good service as testi- 
mony later on when the moonshiners were 
hunting evidence concerning the information to 
the officers. 

As for Grim, he followed the warning given 
the officers, and “ rode for his life.” That was 
the last ever seen of him on the mountain. 

The storekeeper had nothing to say for a 
long while, after the odd exit to which he had 
assisted his unwelcome customer. Joe felt uneasy 
enough : he had knowingly and purposely 
broken one of the rules of the store. He had 


58 


a moonshiner’s son 


more than half expected to be kicked out him- 
self, and was not by any means sure just 
what manner of punishment would be inflicted 
upon him. He was sorry to have been the 
cause of disturbance : yet he was not the 
least sorry that he had defied Joyce Grim. 

“ Can’t anything make me sorry I tol’ that 
thar sneak he was a coward,” said he as he 
stood back among the shadows in the store wait- 
ing for Mr. Jarvis to speak. 

The old man sat in front of the door, on the 
outside, smoking his pipe, his old face wearing 
something very nearly resembling a smile, only 
Joe did not know that, for the face was turned 
from him, and moreover was half hidden by the 
smoke rising from the pipe. 

Joe glanced at the tall maple tree, and then 
down at his own spare dimensions. 

“ Ef he’d a kicked me plumb square up to 
the topmos’ limbs I’d be glad I sassed that thar 
Grim,” said he ; and he said it aloud, without 
being conscious that he was speaking. “ Wanted 
to swear me to lie for him.” The chair in 


A SIGNAL AND A WARNING 


59 


which the proprietor was sitting squeaked, ever 
so lightly, and the fat figure of the proprietor 
shook, just the least little hit, but nobody 
saw it, except it might be a crow that was 
passing overhead to a dead tree on the crags 
hard by 

Twilight descended, the merchant smoked on ; 
and still Joe waited for his scolding. Finally 
he went outside, where Mr. Jarvis was sit- 
ting, and hung about silent and uneasy, until at 
last the merchant looked up from his pipe and 
said : 

“ Well, Joe? Well, sir ?” 

“I hope, sir,” said Joe, plunging at once into 
the trouble, “ I hope you ben’t mad because I fit 
him in the store.” 

The fat face was suddenly obscured by a cloud 
of blue smoke, but there was a half concealed 
satisfaction in the old man’s voice as he said, 
with well assumed carelessness : 

“ Did ye fight him, Joe ?” 

“ I would a fit,” said Joe. “ I ain’t desarvin’ 
of no good words for not figlitin’, Mr. Jarvis, 


60 


a moonshiner's son 


for I would a fit in a minute. He drawed on 
me, an' called me a ‘ saft-spoke,’ an’ allowed I 
had to tell what I knowed, else he’d git it from 
me with his knife. If he’d come a step nigher 
I’d a fit him. I ware just good for a fight. I told 
him so, an’ he stopped. But I called him a cow- 
ard, right thar in you-uns’ store. I ware tolerble 
mad, an’ I reckin there’d been a fight if you 
hadn’t come in when you did. I’m pow’ful 
sorry it ware in the store, Mr. Jarvis, but thar 
can’t no coward come a-bullyin’ of me, nor 
swearin’ of me to a lie.” 

Mr. Jarvis took the pipe from his mouth, 
tapped the bowl gently upon the palm of his 
hand : the white ash fell lightly, noiselessly to 
the floor, a red spark gleaming for a second among 
the dead gray ness. 

“ Joe,” said he, “a boy has got to learn to 
live peaceable if he expects to be a peaceable 
man.” 

“ Yes, sir,” said Joe, choking back the tears, 
“ I know that air true.” 

“An’,” continued the storekeeper without 


A SIGNAL AND A WARNING 


61 


noticing the interruption, “a boy has got to 
learn to stan’ up for hisse’f ef lie expects to be 
a man, an’ have the respect of men. Now don’t 
you never go courtin’ of a fight : an’ keep 
out o’ sech if ye can. But if a coward comes 
bullyin’ of you an’ tryin’ to skeer you into 
that you know to be wrong, do you just stand 
up for yourse’f like a man ! If you can’t whip 
him you can be whipped standin’ up for 
your principles. Son, I’m downright proud of 
you.” And the storekeeper quietly refilled his 
pipe. 

The next day old Mrs. Martin had occasion 
to pay a visit to a neighbor. She went to bor- 
row a dip of snuff, and what she said was : 

“ Gimme the dip, Almiry, I must be skittin’ 
along back. The old man don’t know I’m here. 
But I jest can’t tromp over to Yarbrough’s this 
day ; an’ I jest can’t stand it no longer not to 
have a dip o’ snuff. But I must get along back ; 
the old man’s mighty upset about my Mowin’ of 
the horn yistiddy. You might a heard him 
quar’lin’ plumb over to the settlemint. You 


62 


A MOONSHINER S SON 


see, I went over to Jube’s yistiddy to get a box 
o’ snuff ; but Jube, he got a close fit on him 
someliows, an’ he wouldn’t trade — my way. So 
I went ’long back home, an’ the men folks all 
went off to the gander-pullin’. After they-uns 
ware all gone it began to git a little lonesome ; 
an’ the lonesomer it got the more I missed that 
thar dip. So I says to the chillen, says I, ‘I’m 
a-goin’ to see a old woman down on Sugar Creek 
what’s down with the fever, an’ I’ll git a dip 
down thar.’ It war three good mile, if it war a 
step. I tromped it every foot. And when I 
got thar, bless your soul, thar wasn’t a dust of 
snuff in the house ; an’ the pore old critter that 
sick and not a soul, barrin’ a little gran’child, to 
do a thing about the place. So I made out to 
straighten the house up some, for the land 
knows it was needin’ of straightenin’; an’ then I 
set a spell an’ we-uns talked ; an’ then I put her 
up a bite of warm victuals, an’ then I went home. 
An’ all the time that thar dip what Jube got too 
stingy to trade for was a-troublin’ of my mind. 
So instid o’ cornin’ on straight home I turned 


A SIGNAL AND A WARNING 


63 


off into the crossroads — t’wa’nt no more’n a 
mile out’n the way — to Ann Long’s house, to 
borry a dip of Ann. Ann’s box ware empty 
as a gourd, too, but she crumpled up a handful 
of the old man’s tobaccy an’ give me that to 
sort o’ stay my appetite for the snuff till I could 
get over to Yarbrough’s, or else till Jube got 
over his close fit. After Ann fixed up the 
tobaccy dust for me, I started home. About 
half way thar, after striking the big road again, 
I met two mens a-ridin’ of the fines’ nags I ever 
set eyes on. My ! my ! but they ware pretty ! 
One of ’em ware a claybank ; the very spit of 
one my dad useter own ; an’ he allers said his 
ware the very spit o’ one his dad — my gran’dad 
— useter own ; one he rid to the polls onc’t to 
vote for Henry Clay to be preserdint. I ain’t 
never heard if Henry Clay ware ’lected preser- 
dint or no, but that ain’t a-henderin’ of my 
gran’dad ridin’ that thar claybank to the polls 
to vote for him. So when I see this here one a- 
comin’ down the road all spick an’ span, I jest 
stepped to one side, an’ I know in my soul if I’d 


64 


A MOONSHINERS SON 


had on a hat I’d a lifted of it to that tliar nag, 
an’ says I, 4 Land alive ! if that don’t remind 
me o’ Henry Clay !’ One o’ the men’s heeard 
me, an’ they stopped, an’ says one : 4 Can you 

show us the way to Eastop house ?’ 4 Straight 

road,’ says I. 4 Nary crook nor crank to it ; 
nary blessed turn.’ Then says one : 4 We air 

workin’ up that thar murder as ware done tliar 
las’ month. Maybe you heeard ’bout it? We 
air lawyers, from below.’ 4 Well/ says I, 
4 I ain’t seen many lawyer mens ; an’ so, 
gentlemen, I wish you well.’ With that 
they-uns rid on an’ I went straight on 
home. When I got thar the cliillen had a 
mighty tale to tell about two men as had been 
thar axin’ the way to Eastop House. Seems 
like they had told the cliillen all about thar 
business, too ; ’bout bein’ lawyer mens an’ 
workin’ up that murder ; what the whole 
mount’n knows enough about already. So 
says I to myself, 4 Polly Martin, your gran’dad 
allers said you had a nose for revernuers. 
Them thar men air too set on makin’ it plain 


A SIGNAL AND A WARNING 


65 


who they air an’ what they’re up to.’ An’ 
with that I jest stepped to the door an’ took 
down the horn and blowed. I felt powerful 
upset about breakin’ up the gander-pullin’, but 
’pears like I ware p’intedly bound to head off 
them 4 lawyer mens from below.’ I heeard 
afterward they had been seen nigh the settle- 
ment with tliar nags all spattered up ; don’t 
know wliar they got it ; they ware spick and 
span enough when they passed Polly Martin. 
An’ as for that tliar claybank, as I ware 
a-sayin, it ware the very spit o’ one my gran’- 
dad rid to the polls' to vote for Henry Clay. 
Gimme the dip, Almiry. No, you needn’t 
stop to wrop it up ; I’m goin’ to have it right 
here on my bresh. I aims to be sure o’ that 
thar dip this time, no matter what happens.” 


CHAPTER III 


IT WAS GRIM WHO TOLD 

The officers went away without making any 
raids, and after a few days the mountain settled 
down to its customary quiet : although, to be 
sure, the distillers from all the country round 
were secretly trying to discover who was the 
traitor among them. They did not apprehend 
any danger, however, as the effort to locate 
their stills had been unsuccessful. Only in 
the heart of a boy, a young mountain strip- 
ling, there lurked a fear that danger was 
hovering near. For only Joe had seen the 
mysterious signal given the horsemen, and 
only Joe had noticed the disappearance of Joyce 
Grim. 

He felt that he ought to tell his father, yet he 
dared not. Moreover, the danger did not, he 
considered, threaten his father’s still, and the 
66 


IT WAS GRIM WHO TOLD 


67 


liquor made there was not circulated very freely 
about the neighborhood, but was carted to a dis- 
tant settlement, and sold. 

Yet, while he felt that it was not quite fair to 
allow the men to go unwarned, so long as the 
whereabouts of Grim remained a mystery, he 
could not make up his mind that it was his 
duty to warn them. Would not this be construed 
as aiding the lawbreakers 

He wished very much to ask the advice of 
his friend the storekeeper, but Mr. Jarvis re- 
fused to listen. 

“ I could have been strung to a saplin’ a 
hundred times since the men on this mount’ n 
took to stillin’, if I’d a mind to listen to all 
folks have tried to tell me,” said he, when Joe 
broache4 the subject 

At last Joe began to feel that old Jube’s plan 
was a very good as well as a safe one. 

“ If I done that I’d be better off,” he told 
himself more than once during those slow days 
of torture when he knew the distillers, with all 
their shrewdness, had never hit upon the real 


68 


a moonshiner’s son 


culprit in their search for the informer. It was 
a deadly secret that he carried : yet it had 
been thrust upon him : he did not ask, did not 
desire it. And the burden of it was wearing 
his heart out. The injustice of it appealed to 
him strongly. 

“ I ware not peekin,” he told himself, “ an’ I 
ware not list’nin’ in noways, to hear anybody’s 
secrets, when Joyce Grim called to them thar 
men to 4 ride.’ I ware not to blame, and I won’t 
kerry the blame of it.” 

With that he walked boldly up to the store- 
keeper, bending over a keg of nails, and said : 

“ Mr. Jarvis, if you ware to git hold of a 
secret accidental what would you do about it?” 

The merchant gave one short, sharp glance 
at the boy’s face. “ I’d jest attend to my own 
business,” said he. 

And Joe straightway resolved that this was 
precisely what he would do. But one night, 
about a week later, something happened that 
completely upset his plans for following his 
friend’s advice. Since the visit of the strange 


IT WAS GRIM WHO TOLD 


69 


men to the neighborhood the fires had been ex- 
tinguished in the furnaces around, and the dis- 
tillers, though quiet, were on their guard. 

Midway the road from Dawson’s place to the 
settlement there lived an old man of whom the 
brandymakers had been for some time suspi- 
cious. He had come from some one of the 
valley towns years before; he was very j)oor 
and had been a great drunkard, which ac- 
counted, doubtless, for his poverty. For years 
he had been acquainted with the secret paths to 
the neighborhood stills ; no matter how difficult 
or inaccessible they might be they were never 
beyond reach of old David Links. Within the 
last year, however, he had become converted at 
one of the meetings of the neighborhood and 
was no\y loud in his denunciation of the illicit 
traffic. Instead of the hidden joaths through 
the laurel brakes, the old drunkard followed 
the dusty highway to the Methodist meeting- 
house at the head of Panther Creek. Suspi- 
cion at once fell upon Links. Links, who 
had drunk all the liquor he cared to drink in 


70 


a moonshiner’s son 


the old days of his vagabondism, had, they be- 
lieved, turned traitor, in that he had turned, or 
attempted to do so, his former comrades over to 
the law he had once encouraged them in break- 
ing. 

Since the still had been idle Joe had spent a 
good deal of time at the store, doing such jobs 
as the storekeeper found for him. One evening 
he tarried at the settlement later than usual. 
Jube had been unexpectedly called away to an 
adjoining county on business and had left Joe 
in charge of the store. It was past seven 
o’clock before he returned, and, nothing loath, 
Joe had his supper with Mrs. Jarvis and stayed 
until Jube got back. The storekeeper had 
promised, too, to bring back a bottle of lini- 
ment for his grandmother, who had been ailing 
some lately, so Joe had concluded to wait for it. 
It was eight o’clock when he started out, afoot, 
for his grandmother’s cabin on the bluff. The 
September moon was shining, a full, golden 
circle, straight upon the long, sandy line that 
represented Joe’s road. It was a still, warm 


IT WAS GRIM WHO TOLD 


71 


night, and he determined to follow the road, 
instead of striking off into the trail, as was his 
custom, although it would be a full mile out of 
his way. He had been shut up in the store all 
day, and somehow the long, sandy road and the 
tramp through the still moonlight had a fascina- 
tion for him to-night. The beauty of the night 
and the restfulness of nature’s perfect peace 
cast a spell upon him. He walked slowly, 
dreaming dreams, it might be, of the days to 
come when the little cabin on the bluff should 
know better times than these that had fallen 
upon it ; times when he should have become a 
man. 

The road from the settlement lay in a 
straight, unbroken line for a quarter of a mile 
before it made a long bend to the left. Just 
before reaching this bend Joe was accustomed 
to taking the herders’ old trail that cut through 
the woods, striking the road again beyond the 
bend, where the trail crossed it, cut through the 
laurel down the bluff into the little strip of 
cove land, and then up again to the cabin 


72 


a moonshinek’s son 


on the crags that Joe called home. The 
herders’ trail, to be sure, did not follow this 
last ascent, but turned off to the right in a line 
with Hickorynut Mountain. 

Joe gave himself up to the pleasure of his 
walk. There was not a sound to break the 
night’s stillness save the muffled tramp of his 
own feet along the dusty highway, the hooting 
of an owl far away among the blasted cedars 
upon the mountain top, or the occasional startled 
scurrying of a frightened coon prowling among 
the wild grapes and luscious muscadines that 
skirted the roadside. 

Joe meant to leave the road at a point where 
the trail would cross it for the last time. He 
reached this point and was about to turn off 
into the shadow-girt stillness when a sudden, 
sharp, discordant sound seemed to cut like a 
knife through the exquisite stillness of the 
night. He stopped, just at the opening of the 
path, to listen: hoofs, in quick, uneven gait 
was what he heard. It seemed to Joe, as he 
stood there listening to the inharmonious clat- 


IT WAS GRIM WHO TOLD 


73 


ter, that full one hundred horsemen must be 
riding down the road. He was not in the least 
afraid, so he stopped, full of a boy’s curiosity, 
to see who it was that was coming at that gait, 
at such an hour ; for the nine o’clock visitor was 
as unusual to Joe as the caller that came at 
midnight. At first he could see nothing, 
although the moon shone bright as day, but 
the hurrying hoofs came ever nearer and 
nearer, until at last they swept into the long, 
swinging strides of the gallop in perfect move- 
ment. But how long they were — 

Suddenly they galled into view, not one 
hundred, but six horsemen. It seemed to Joe 
that they were upon him in a half-second, so 
close that he could see a little strip of black 
drawn across the upper part of each face, and 
the glimmer of pistols and of knives where the 
moonlight flashed across their belts as they 
dashed toward him. He stepped back into the 
shadow wondering, waiting. The next moment 
he saw that which sent the blood in a cold 
stream through his veins, paralyzing him with 


74 a moonshiner’s son 

such horror that he could neither move for a 
moment, nor cry out. 

Five of the men were armed, but the sixth, 
bareheaded, coatless, was bound to the saddle, 
and in the moonlight Joe distinctly saw the pal- 
lid face of old Links. Instantly it occurred to 
him that they were going to take the old man 
to the settlement and hang him, leaving him 
there, perhaps, as a warning to future informers. 
Such a thing had been done, but it was long, 
long ago, before the law became so vigilant and 
so unmerciful to mobs. Joe had scarcely an 
instant for thought ; only the sin, the horror of 
it, and the part he himself was playing in the 
terrible tragedy filled his brain, paralyzing for 
the moment every muscle of his body. 

At that instant the gang dashed by him, so 
close he felt the breath of the leader’s horse in 
his face as it shied past him. And then Joe 
realized that he must do something, that he 
must act quickly if he hoped to feel guilt- 
less of this crime of murder. He must save 
Links ; tell what he knew ; manage to get 


IT WAS GRIM WHO TOLD 


75 


there somehow ahead of the mob. Scarcely 
knowing what he did, only that he must do 
something, he darted across the road and into 
the trail on the other side — the short cut to the 
settlement. Like a shadow among shadows he 
sped, straight back to the settlement. He 
ran like a deer, faster, if possible, than a deer. 
Though he knew that he had not the faintest 
chance against those galloping hoofs, still he 
ran. Something might, something must hap- 
pen to delay them and give him a chance to 
tell what he had seen and heard. And even in 
that hour of horror Joe felt glad that he had 
not been frightened into a promise not to tell 
what he knew. He did not stop now to argue 
with himself, to wonder if he were safe in doing 
this. He only yielded himself to nature, and 
that which seemed the one thing possible and 
right. 

The quarter of a mile had never seemed so 
endless as it did to-night, but he emerged from 
the shadows at last into the open road to the 
settlement, footsore, a spent runner indeed, to 


76 


a moonshinee/s son 


see the group gathered under the big maple 
tree in front of the settlement store. 

Not a light was visible, save the golden glory 
of the moon ; and such a sight as she looked 
down upon ! 

The men were congregated under the tree, 
noiseless as shadows, though some one seemed 
to be giving directions by a sort of pantomime. 
Joe wondered if he were in time ; he tried to 
call to them, but his throat was dry and parched, 
and he could not be heard. He understood 
that they must have stopped to hitch their 
horses at the bend of the road and that they 
had walked from there to the tree in order not 
to arouse the settlement, for anybody could see 
that the big, burly figure with a bit of calico 
over his face was Dawson, and Dawson had no 
wish to be recognized as one of a mob. They 
worked hurriedly. One of the men had tossed 
the end of a rope over a limb of the tree ; the 
other was fastened about the neck of a bent old 
figure that cowered and trembled and begged 
piteously, in low, broken tones, for life. 


IT WAS GRIM WHO TOLD 


77 


Joe tried not to see, lest he should never be 
able to forget the scene, as he fell, rather than 
ran, into the midst of the group and shouted : 

“ Don’t do it ! Wait — ” 

As the boy’s voice rang out sharply upon the 
night, a door opened across the way and Jube 
Jarvis stepped noiselessly out into the shadow 
of the porch to hear what was going on. 

Panting and breathless Joe could only grasp 
the arm of the man who was holding the rope 
and gasp, between breaths : 

“ He — didn’t — do it, Mr. Links didn’t — I — 
know. Wait — a — min — ute — I’ll — tell — in — a 
— minute. Take — off — the — rope !” 

The hand upon the rope slowly opened ; the 
loose coil fell upon the ground like a serpent 
slowly unwinding. Surprise at the unexpected 
interruption drove every other thought from 
their minds for a moment. 

Then Dawson spoke, in a disguised voice : 

“See here, bub” — he had recognized Joe as 
Bentley’s boy, but he had no idea of allowing 
Joe to recognize him — “what is it ye know?- 


78 


a moonshiner’s son 


Out with it mighty quick. Else — ” He gave 
the rope a kick with his foot and looked up into 
•the half denuded branches of the tree in a way 
that made Joe shiver and turn away his eyes. 

Jube Jarvis stepped down to the shadow of a 
hemlock that grew in the corner of his yard 
and listened. He carried a revolver in his 
hand ; the click of it sounded ominously sug- 
gestive as he set the trigger at cock and waited to 
learn what the mob meant to do in regard to J oe. 

Joe, meanwhile recovered his breath suffi- 
ciently to make himself understood, and was 
telling what he knew of the proposed, but foiled, 
raid. 

“ Mr. Links didn’t tell on ye — ” said he, when 
a voice interrupted : 

“On who ?” 

“ On nobody,” said Joe. “ I don’t know fur 
sure who told, but I’m ’bliged ter tell what I do 
know, ef I git my own self hanged fur it. I 
can’t set still an’ see the innercent suffer no- 
ways, an’ I reckin Joyce Grim’s the one what 
told.” 


IT WAS GRIM WHO TOLD 


79 


“ Joyce Grim?” 

There was a general whisper of surprise. 

“ Yes, Joyce Grim. I ware keepin’ store fur 
Mr. Jarvis that day, an’ I see Joyce Grim make 
some signs ter them two lawyer men as were 
try in’ ter hire me ter take ’em ter the gander- 
pullin’. It ware when Mis’ Martin blowed her 
horn; Joyce he run out o’ the woods over thar 
an’ signaled the men : and he hollered ter ’em 
ter ‘ ride fur thar lives ;’ and they rid. Then 
Joyce he come in the store an’ wanted ter fight 
me, an’ make me promise I wouldn’t tell no 
matter who axed me. An’ when I wouldn’t he 
drawed his knife an’ allowed he’d kill me ef I 
didn’t shet up. An’ jest then Mr. Jarvis he 
come up an’ kicked him out fur fightin’ in the 
store. Some of you-uns must a-seen him do 
it : and then Joyce he run away. An’ that’s 
all.” 

It was a plain story, plainly told. They knew 
it was true : some of them did remember seeing 
Jube kick Joyce Grim into the road, and others 
remembered having heard about it. 


80 


A moonshiner’s son 


Joe felt glad that Grim was beyond their 
reach that night. If they had been determined 
to hang old Links on mere suspicion, Joe 
trembled to think what would have been the fate 
of the real informer had he come within the 
power of those infuriated men that night. 

When he had told his story Dawson stepped 
forward and with his own hands cut away the 
rope that bound their prisoner. 

“ Do you go down yander,” said he, “ to that 
thar thicket whar we-uns left our horses an’ 
pick ye out a nag. Then do ye go home, 
straight. The nag’s your’n : and ye better not 
let yer jaw wag too much about this night’s busi- 
ness, nuther.” 

Links assented silently : after all, he consid- 
ered, he was not blameless in the matter : 
had he not affiliated with them, made himself 
one of them, he would never have become pos- 
sessed of their guilty secrets. He accepted the 
horse as they intended it — as some show of 
reparation for the wrong they had done him, 
and soon it was galloping home with him over 


IT WAS GRIM WHO TOLD 


81 


the road he had never expected to travel again. 
And as he rode he registered with God a prayer 
for the boy who had spoken so bravely and so 
opportunely in his behalf. 

“ He’s too good fur Lige Bentley an’ his 
gang,” said he, “ an’ I pray the Lord ter pluck 
him out o’ thar hands an’ ter reserve him fur 
Himself.” 

When Links was set free, the mob disbanded 
at once : for the confusion had awakened the 
settlement : more than one window had been 
opened to ascertain if “ it ware daylight al- 
ready ?” 

Only one question had been put to Joe : it 
was Dawson who put it : 

“ Whyn’t ye tell what ye knowed sooner, ye 
kid ye ?” 

“ Because it ware none o’ my business,” said 
Joe. 

The men laughed, and their laughter drowned 
a pleased little chuckle that came from the 
direction of the hemlock in the corner of Jube’s 
yard. 


6 


82 


A moonshiner’s son 


“ Well,” said Dawson, “ next time ye better 
try an’ make it yer business ter speak up wlienst 
ye know a thing like that.” 

“ No I won’t,” said Joe. “ I won’t do no sech 
thing. I won’t be blabbin’ about things that 
don’t consarn me, not to please anybody.” 

Again the men laughed and started off in the 
direction of the thicket where they had jhcketed 
their horses. But Dawson called over his 
shoulder to Joe as he was going : 

“Ye can ride behin’ me a piece ef ye’re 
minded, bub.” 

“I don’t want ter,” said Joe. “I ain’t ridin’ 
with mobs an’ sech.” 

He had grown very bold since he had resolved 
to face the mob, and he was not sorry to let 
them know that he disavowed any affiliation with 
them, and that he had only done what he had in 
the interest of justice, and not in their interest 
at all. 

Yet, his independence pleased Dawson, too : 

“See here, bub,” said he, “ye ain’t a nat’ral 
son o’ Lige Bentley’s, that ye ain’t. I can a’most 


IT WAS GRIM WHO TOLD 83 

believe ye’re Jube Jarvis’s own blood: ye’re 
that like one ’nother.” 

It was a compliment Joe was not expecting, 
but the shadow under the hemlock hugged itself 
closer and chuckled : 

“ 4 It ware none o’ my business,’ ” said the store- 
keeper ; “ that ware a peart answer, son,” and 
again he chuckled, as he felt that his lessons 
were not lost upon the boy he had been trying 
in his own rude fashion to help. “ An’ he tol’ : 
actually tol’ on that tliar rascal Grim. Made 
up his own mind an’ acted his own act : done it 
like a man, too. An’ how he did sass Dawson : 
my ! my ! it ware worth a night’s sleep ter know 
Joe had the grit ter do it. I’m downright proud 
of ye, son.” 

And the storekeeper went off to bed again as 
happy as though he had found a gold mine 
among the gray bluffs of the mountain, while 
Joe was whistling along the highway as blithely 
as though he had heard the storekeeper’s com- 
mendation : which would indeed have given him 
quite as much happiness at the moment, as an 


84 


A MOONSHINER S SON 


equal division of the gold mine, had there been 
one to divide. 

Then quiet settled down upon the mountain 
again: September drifted, and October, bland 
and beautiful, crowned the bluffs with the richer 
hues of scarlet and amber and purple. No 
further raids had been attempted, and one day a 
letter had come to some of Grim’s people saying 
that he had run away to Texas. 

And so, about a month after the great scare, 
the furnace fires were rebuilt in the illicit work- 
shops, and the stills put in operation again. In 
the face of danger and of death, against 
heavy odds and with mighty risks, with only 
the great solemn mountain to shelter and conceal 
them, the distillers again lighted their fires, 
cleansed their tubs, and set to work, making 
wildcat whiskey. 


CHAPTER IY 


A RAID 

It was mid-afternoon and the mists lay upon 
the mountains, the gray, silvery mists, min- 
gling, or trying to mingle, with a long, purplish 
line that rose and curled into a tell-tale column 
of smoke, among the bewildering world of hills 
basking in the October sunlight. 

In a little hollow of the hills three men were 
stretched upon a bed of drifted autumn leaves. 
They were lying flat forward, hugging the 
ground as closely as they might and still allow 
for the handling of the field glass through 
which they were peering eagerly, passing it from 
hand to hand, into that gracefully ascending 
column of purple smoke. 

They had watched patiently and long for a 
glimpse of that purple line, which, they had 
been told, ought to be rising somewhere in that 

85 


86 


a moonshiner's son 


direction the clay old Lige Bentley should start 
the fire in his furnace again. 

For a month they had been shadowing the 
place, stealthily, craftily, referring now and 
then to a roughly drafted code of instructions, 
a copy of which each man carried in his pocket, 
for sometimes they had separated for days, 
meeting again, at last, in the little hollow to 
watch again for the blue line from Bentley's 
furnace fire. 

They carried no luggage, not even a shotgun, 
though each man was armed, not for attack, but 
for protection. They had no other provision 
against hunger than a simple little lunch 
tucked away in each man's pocket ; for down 
the mountain, about midway, near what was 
known to them as the First Bench, there was a 
house which they called their “ Half Way 
House." It was here they went for food, and 
to this house they crept at night, under shelter 
of darkness, to rest and sleep. 

Sometimes they went away, down the valley, 
and were gone for days; and seemingly the 


A RAID 


87 


hunt for the illicit still would be abandoned. 
But after awhile they were back again, still 
watching for the line of smoke. 

The neighborhood had been virtually under 
detective inspection for a month. And that for 
which they had been watching they had at last 
found, a little curl of purple smoke, harmless 
enough to all seeming, and that might have 
issued from any chimney of any honest moun- 
taineer living thereabouts. 

And that was precisely what the wily old 
distiller had thought when he put a torch to 
the dry brush under the copper worm and sent 
that line of purple out to make acquaintance 
with the grayish mists. And so the watchers 
in the hollow might have thought, but for the 
directions Grim had given them, and which were 
spread out now before them on the leaves. 

“ It is smoke,” one of the watchers declared, 
and his voice vibrated exultingly ; as though 
among the purple and scarlet October leaves he 
had found occasion to announce — “ It is a gold 
mine !” “ It is smoke ; and look !” He ran his 


88 


A MOONSHINER S SON 


finger along the written directions and read 
aloud in that half whisper that had become a 
habit with him during his last month’s service : 

“ ‘ To the left of a large ledge projecting above 
the surrounding peaks of the mountain, and to 
the right of a flat, white-looking stone ; between 
the stone and the ledge ; near, and to the right 
of a tall, blasted pine tree may be seen the 
smoke from Bentley’s still, of a fair day, when 
the mists are not too heavy or too blue.’ ” 

“Well, the mists are evidently just right to- 
day, a grayish white. And yonder is the ledge, 
‘ The Lion’s Head,’ he called it, to the right of us. 
On the left is the flat-looking stone. There is 
the blasted pine, and right there between them 
is the line of blue smoke. All just as that ras- 
cally Grim promised when he sold out his 
friends for ten dollars. Boys, we’re in for it.” 

“Not so loud, Jackson,” said one of the 
others. “ Remember, it isn’t Grim’s neck that 
is in danger now, but our own lives. That 
makes the two we’re after. Since Dawson has 
been located for three weeks, we were only 


A RAID 


89 


waiting until the old fox got the thing into 
operation again, so that we could seize him 
while operating it. Now, since it’s done, what 
next?” 

“ Next,” said Jackson, “ I am going straight 
back to town and tell the chief w T e’ve found 
them. I reckon they will not laugh at us this 
time. He’ll give us a force to come back with 
to-morrow night, for the thing must be done at 
once. I suppose he will take in old Martin on 
the way down, though that little concern hasn’t 
troubled us overly much. It’s the big game 
we’ve been trying to bring down. I tell you, 
boys, we’ve done this pretty well. The day of 
the gander-pulling I thought it was all up, for 
awhile.” 

“ And I always will believe, Charley, that it 
was your walnut juice gave us away. You for- 
got to dye one eyebrow ; didn’t he, Ligon ?” 

“ One eyebrow and two lashes,” laughed 
Ligon. “They say a mountaineer can detect a 
revenue fellow if one whisker is left uncolored.” 

“Now, boys,” said Jackson, “this isn’t any 


90 


a moonshiner’s son 


time for joking. I admit there was a stray 
lock peeping out from under my wig ; at least 
I think so, because I saw that fellow Jarvis 
looking at it so intently that I pulled my hat 
down over my head more snugly, and just 
about that time that old horn broke things up. 
I don’t know how I ever did get the wig off 
without being seen, for it wasn’t two minutes 
before Dawson was looking around for me with 
his knife. But if anybody saw me it was 
Jarvis. He didn’t matter, because I whispered 
in his ear who I was the very first hour I set 
foot at the settlement. I had been told the old 
fellow kept a still tongue.” 

“ You had been told that he wouldn’t lie for 
you, either,” said Ligon. “ So if he had been 
questioned he would probably have told all 
about you.” 

“ That he wouldn’t,” said Jackson. “ I know 
men too well for that. When a man won’t lie 
he has some honor, lots of it. I put the old 
fellow on his at the outset. A man like 
that will die for his honor, at the same time 


A RAID 


91 


that he wouldn't tell a lie to save the other fel- 
low's life. I don't believe he would have 
allowed them to attack me in his store, either, 
for you know what Grim said : 4 He's at peace 

with all men, an' a peaceable liver, but he can 
fight like ol' scratch ef he's minded.' But this 
isn't a time to talk. We must get to work. 
Now, boys, I am going to snake it through 
these woods and carry the good news to the 
chief. We don't care to tackle these toughs 
alone. If you boys want to wait till night — " 

44 That's just what we do," said Ligon. 44 One 
head is enough to risk at one time, isn't it, 
Combs?" 

44 I'm willing to wait till dark," said Combs, 
44 but I'm ready for marching orders, too. This 
is Jackson's job; I’m ready to obey Jackson." 

44 Nonsense," said Jackson. 44 You've both 
done as much as I have, and done it better ; for 
it was I stirred up all the fuss at the gander- 
pulling." 

44 I’m not so sure about that," said Ligon. 
44 1 distrust the old woman who 4 hadn't seen so 


92 


a moonshiner’s son 

many lawyer mens.’ But go on, Jackson, what 
else?” 

“ I was going to say, you boys wait until it 
grows dark, then go on to the Half Way House 
and get a good sleep to-morrow. I will carry the 
diagram and directions down and go oyer them 
with the boss to-night, explain the plan we 
have agreed upon, and come on to meet you at 
the Half Way to-morow evening. How does 
that suit you? We take Dawson’s first, early 
in the evening, too late for the news to spread, 
yet early enough to give us time to skirt the 
mountain side to Bentley’s before midnight. 
Is that right ?” 

“ Yes,” said Ligon, “ tell him that Bentley’s 
is ten miles or more from Dawson’s, the route 
we will be obliged to take. But that there 
is a secret trail leading from Bentley’s house to 
his still, large enough for a small wagon to 
travel. We can follow that coming back and 
go straight on down the mountain with our pris- 
oners. Tell him there are four at Dawson’s 
and that there are five at Bentley’s : four 


A RAID 


93 


men and a boy. Are you sure you will know 
the paths and the exact locality by night, Jack- 
son ?” 

Jackson laughed : 

“ I haven’t been hugging these hills four 
weeks for nothing,” said he. “ I know ’em like 
a fox.” 

“ Well, be sure that you travel them ‘ like a 
fox/ ” said Ligon, “ and be doubly sure you 
keep a covert ready to run into, my boy : the 
hunters are pretty wary in this vicinity just 
now. Luck to you.” 

Jackson waved his hand silently, and a 
moment later he had disappeared among the 
close, rustling tangles of laurel. 

That night, under cover of darkness, Ligon 
and Combs crept away through the woods to 
the house on the First Bench, where they had 
a cold supper at midnight and went at once to 
bed. 

It was noon of the following day when they 
were awakened with a summons to dinner, and 
with the information that the chief had arrived 


94 


a moonshinek’s son 


with a mounted posse of five men, among whom 
was Jackson. 

They ate a hurried dinner, and were soon in 
the saddle : for the road they expected to take 
to Dawson’s would carry them many miles 
away from the still before it finally brought 
them to it. 

They were to skirt the mountain for some two 
miles, then cut into a dry creek bed for about 
two more ; that being the only possible excuse for 
a road to be found until they should reach an 
old mill road, abandoned when the mill ceased 
to be operated a half-dozen years before. Here 
they expected to begin the ascent again, follow- 
ing this old road until within a mile of Dawson’s 
still, where they had decided to picket their 
horses and travel afoot to the place of 
attack. 

Thanks to Grim, they understood that the 
still was located in the old mill that stood on the 
bank of a noisy little stream which would deaden 
all sound of their approach. 

They were also instructed that the mill would 


A RAID 


95 


present every appearance of a grist mill in full 
operation, except, perhaps, that the wheel would 
be stationary : the miller, it might be, would be 
resting from his grinding, in the mill door. 
There would he sacks of grain scattered 
about the door, too, although for many a day 
the only visitors to the old mill were those who 
brought jugs instead of meal sacks. 

On reaching the creek bed the chief had 
divided his men, and detached two of them to 
go on to the neighborhood of Bentley’s ; with 
instructions to look over the ground thorouglyly, 
and to keep an eye on Bentley as much as jios- 
sible without exposing themselves to danger from 
discovery. 

“ And be sure you look out for the boy,” said 
he. “ The fellow Grim gave special notice of 
a boy connected with this gang : a dangerous 
character.” 

The men, one of whom was Combs, set out 
for Bentley’s, and the rest of the posse passed 
on down the dry bed of the creek for Dawson’s. 
The chief gave explicit orders that nobody was 


96 


a moonshiner’s son 


to speak a word to any one they might chance to 
meet along the road : 

“ We will take no chances on that,” he de- 
clared. “ These people are far too shrewd and 
too suspicious for us to venture any kind of 
acquaintance with them. You will just ride 
straight ahead, in silence.” 

It seemed a needless order : the posse had 
ridden all the afternoon without meeting a liv- 
ing soul. They rode the length of the creek 
bed, to the point where it touched the old mill 
road and began the ascent of the mountain. 
Here another road leading to a little settlement 
two miles distant crossed the old mill road, and 
there, in the very centre of the crossing roads, 
stood an old woman, a gaunt, toothless old 
crone, with a brush between her gums, who 
stood staring at them over an armful of gray 
warp that she was lugging home for a hit-or- 
miss rag carpet. There was a sleepy look in 
the little old black eyes fixed upon the posse, 
as though their owner but half comprehended 
that those strong, sturdy horses straining their 


A RAID 


97 


backs under their burdens were carrying men, 
real men, such as she had seen every day of her 
life. Not a word was spoken. If the men saw 
the stupid old woman they gave no sign ; there 
wasn't even a chance for the customary 
“ howdy," which the mountaineer is ever ready 
to offer. 

The men kept their eyes upon the broad 
back of the chief riding stolidly along in front 
of the line. There was something suggestive 
of the brave old German, Bliicher, in the droop 
of those massive shoulders, no less than in the 
sturdy pushing on to meet the dangers ahead. 
Perhaps, too, there was not lacking some of the 
wisdom of the proud old Prussian as well ; for 
no sooner had the posse passed than the expres- 
sion of the old woman's face changed; the 
sleepy eyes flashed. The old crone chuckled : 

“ Them mens air up to somethin'," said she 
to the gray warp. “ They ain't revernuers, 
howsomever. They're too glumsome for rever- 
nuers. Revernuers air mostly too friendly. I 
know 'em soon's I scent 'em ; can't fool Polly 
7 


98 


A MOONSHINEK S SON 


Martin. My gran’ dad alters said I had a nose 
for revernuers.” 

It was indeed old Mrs. Martin, going home 
from Yarbrough’s store, where she had been to 
trade for some warp for her weaving the next 
week. She had no suspicion that the straight 
young fellow, riding so demurely at the heels 
of the grim leader of the posse, was the same 
for whom she had sounded the alarm only a 
few short weeks before. She had her opinion, 
however, though she did not express it until 
they had passed beyond range of her sharp 
little black eyes. 

“ They’re up to somethin’,” said she. “ Them 
mens air sholy up to somethin’. Maybe it’s 
the sheriff huntin’ o’ someun ; or maybe it’s a 
mob ; else tliar’s a big camp-meetin’ goin’ on 
somewliars on the mount’ll.” 

The sun swung over the verge of the bluff, a 
blood-red ball of fire it looked. Night was 
ready to drop down upon the valley, already 
wrapped in the shadows of twilight. The 
tips of the tallest trees were scarlet; but in 


A RAID 


99 


the woods, under the shade of the dense old 
oaks, and pines, and hemlocks, it was dark 
when the posse dismounted and picketed their 
horses. 

Then they separated, in order to surround 
the mill and cut off escape ; for the object of the 
service is, not so much the destruction of the 
property as the punishment of the offenders; 
and Dawson was a wiry old fellow that had 
been wanted for a long time, to answer for the 
offense of illegal distilling. 

Not a word was spoken. Each man under- 
stood that he carried his own life and the lives 
of his comrades in his hand ; a misstep, an un- 
guarded whisper, and all would be lost. 

The old mill stood picturesquely weird in 
the uncertain light ; a red glow shone from 
within and streamed through the door, which 
stood wide upon its rusty hinges. It was a 
subdued glow, red and warm and mellow ; a 
glow from the distiller’s furnace, where some 
one had set the door ajar for a moment. There 
was a low sound of voices in careless conversa- 


100 


A MOONSHINER S SON 


tion, mingled with the noisy rush of the stream 
hard by, bewailing, it might be, the milks ex- 
change of industries, or the silence of the great 
wheel, hanging useless, like a dead sentinel, above 
the fast hurrying current. Perhaps the little 
mountain stream felt its own abasement, and was 
singing a song of regret for the good old days 
when it helped to make the hoe-cakes for the lit- 
tle children, miles away among the mountains. 

None of its regret, however, disturbed the 
group of idle men smoking before the door of 
the old mill, in happy ignorance of the stealthy 
figures creeping noiselessly upon them through 
the shadows of the forest. There were four of 
them, Dawson and his three confederates, seated 
there, distinctly visible, with the red glow of 
the furnace ujdoii their backs. 

Within the shanty could be seen the sacks 
of grain, as Grim had informed the officers they 
would find them. He had also instructed them 
that behind those sacks there were bushels and 
bushels of apples, and that under the mill floor 
there were barrels of brandy, new and old, 


A RAID 


101 


waiting for a safe transport to a certain place 
of sale, the name of which had never been in- 
trusted to the informer. 

The still was in full operation. Through 
the open door came the fumes of the half dis- 
tilled liquor, powerfully condemning. 

Dawson had just leaned forward to receive 
from one of the gang a lighted splinter with 
which to freshen the smouldering tobacco in 
his pipe, when — Hist ! 

The laurel parted all about them and a hasty 
“ click !” “ click !” followed by another and 
another, suddenly cut the silence with deadly 
meaning. 

The sole of Dawson’s heavy foot touched the 
ground, but before he could rise, the muzzle of 
a pistol was pressed against his forehead. The 
voice of the chief, not loud, but thoroughly dis- 
tinct and fearfully in earnest, said : 

“ Surrender ! all of you !” 

The command was emphasized by the gleam- 
ing barrels of the deputies standing in the full 
glare of the furnace’s light. 


102 


a moonshiner’s son 


Only one man attempted to get his hand to 
his belt, but a weapon at his head put a sudden 
stop to the faint resistance. 

‘‘There isn’t the slightest use, men,” said the 
chief. “We are all around you. You had 
better surrender quietly.” 

They did. Not a shot was fired. The 
surprise had been complete. The distillers 
stepped out, one by one, and laid down their 
arms. 

They remained under guard while the brandy 
was emptied upon the ground and the still de- 
stroyed. Then two of the posse were detached 
to march the prisoners down to the county seat, 
and ere long the old mill was left to the shadows, 
to the rats, and to the lamentations of the mur- 
muring stream hurrying past it to find the more 
placid current of the Calf Killer, miles away, 
beyond the mountain. 

And then, when the prisoners were fairly 
started, the chief and his remaining deputies 
headed their horses for Bentley’s. 

As they swept by in the moonlight, one of the 


A RAID 


103 


men who was guarding the prisoners called out 
to them : 

“ Be sure you get the boy. Grim said there 
was a boy ; the sharpest little wildcatter in the 
lot.” 

The “ sharpest little wildcatter ” meant Joe. 
Grim had planned his revenge nicely. 


CHAPTER Y 

THE MOONSHINER^ HOME 

Wild and picturesque is the Blue Spring ; and 
the Falls, with their prismatic lights — where 
the waters of the Spring go tumbling over the 
bluff to the basin a hundred feet below — which 
have won for them the name of “ The Rainbow 
Falls.” 

A magnificent hiding place was the Rain- 
bow. The beautiful Falls, that should have 
served no baser purpose than to show forth the 
wonderful handiwork of the Master, was made 
to serve the distillers in their illicit work. For 
midway the great bluff and far back under the 
overhanging rocks a cavity opens. In the 
centre of the roof a spring trickles down into 
an old, rotted trough, and beyond the trough 
into a basin bottomed with bright, pinkish peb- 
bles. A great heap of stones tells where a fur- 
104 


THE MOONSHINER'S HOME 105 

nace has been ; these, with the remnants of a 
twisted, copper worm, proclaim all too plainly 
the service the beautiful cataract was made 
to perform. Falling from the bluff above, 
it made for Elijah Bentley a most effective 
screen as he plied his unlawful trade, back 
under the cavity and behind the Falls. 

Others were raided ; others still grew restless 
and uneasy and finally moved away or gave up 
the business as one too full of risks; to old 
Bentley, however, danger seemed a thing not to 
be feared. 

Secure indeed did he feel as he sat behind 
the watery veil and smoked his after-dinner 
pipe to the music of the hounds, in open pack 
in the cove below. Yet the illicit establishment 
was doomed, despite old Bentley's feeling of 
security. 

One night he sat smoking on the doorstep of 
his cabin, a half-mile distant, waiting for his sup- 
per, which his old mother-in-law was preparing 
over the fire of logs and pine knots blazing in 
the great black-moutlied fireplace. The blaze 


106 


a moonshiner’s son 


lent an air of comfort to the room despite its 
scant proportions and coarse furnishings. A pot 
swung from an iron hook oyer the fire ; a skillet 
with cover surmounted by a heap of glowing 
coals occupied one corner of the capacious 
hearth, while a griddle from the other side sent 
up savory odors of broiling bacon. An old 
woman, wearing a short petticoat of homespun, 
was flitting here and there over the hearth. 
Yet, while she made all possible haste, the man 
on the doorstep grumbled and growled and 
swore under his breath, and wondered “how 
long he would be getting his grub.” 

He was a rough looking man, tall, with 
shoulders square enough to have borne the 
burdens of life honestly, without resort to un- 
lawful callings. A beard, rough and unkempt, 
covered his face and lost itself in the masses of 
uncut hair that fell about his ears and eyes. He 
wore boots of stout calfskin that reached to his 
knees and there received the brown jeans panta- 
loons tucked into their capacious tops, against 
the dust and dews of the mountain walks. His 


THE MOONSHINER'S HOME 107 

waist was encircled by a broad leather belt, into 
which was thrust a pair of old-fashioned horse 
pistols. A gun rested against the wall, where 
he had placed it while waiting for his supper. 

While he sat thus, smoking and grumbling, 
there came a slight, cautious stir among the 
laurel bushes outside. 

“ Hist !” 

He cautioned the old woman to silence, while 
his keen eye peered into the shadowy growth, 
his fingers fumbling for the pistols at his belt. 
The next moment two stalwart figures emerged 
from the shadow and cautiously approached 
within radius of the firelighted doorway. Bent- 
ley muttered a low growl. 

“ Well," said he, slipping the weapon hur- 
riedly back into its place, “ ain't you two bright 
ones ! Come slippin' up here like a pair o' horse 
thieves. I like ter put a bullet into your heads. 
Ain’t you got no sense, slippin' up to my house 
at night in sech a manner ? Didn't you know 
I'd shoot?" 

“That's what I told Jake," said one of the 




108 a moonshiner's son 

men, a middle-aged man with smoothly shaven 
face, and hair of thin iron gray. “ I allowed we'd 
just better step up, so. But Jake he allowed dif- 
ferent. He allowed as revenuers always tried 
that dodge, and we'uns had better be keerful. 
That's what Jake allowed." 

“ Jake be blowed," said Bentley. ‘‘That thar 
red head o' his ain’t stuffed none too full o' 
sense, as I can see. You little chicken — " 

“ Let up thar, will you !" The challenge rang 
out from beardless lipos, yet the hardened old 
sinner quailed for an instant, and instinctively 
felt for the pistol at his belt. “ Drap that !" com- 
manded the same voice. “ I ain't afeard o' you, 
Lige Bentley, an’ you can't skeer me, neither. 
If I aim ter come here friendly I allow I have 
the right ; if I choose ter come keerful, 'stead o' 
makin' a targit o' my figur for every chance 
raider hid in the brush, I reckon I have that 
right. Now you hold you jaw ; reckerlect thar's 
them can shoot as peart, an' may be as true, as 
you, with all your braggin'. Set back thar, 
will you ?" 


THE MOONSHINER’S HOME 109 

Bentley dropped back into his seat silently. 
The old woman, meanwhile, had hurried the 
supper on the table. She knew better than to 
interfere with her son’s quarrels, yet she under- 
stood something of the art of interference in a 
peaceable way, too. She stepped to the door, 
as seemingly unconcerned as though she had 
heard nothing of the disturbance. 

“ Supper’s on the table, Lige,” she said. 
“ You-uns can come an’ eat it.” 

Bentley knocked the ashes from his pipe and 
laid it upon the water shelf. He, too, had de- 
cided to ignore the fuss. The quick-headed 
mountaineer, Underwood, allowed his gun to 
slip through the palms of his hands until the 
stock rested upon his boot. Bentley understood 
that hostilities were withdrawn ; he stood aside 
and motioned the visitors to enter. The younger 
acted as spokesman. He was beardless Jake 
Underwood, a partner in the illicit still. 

“ We-uns have had our supper,” said he, 
“ but we’ll wait out here till you swallow yours, 
an’ then we’ll walk back ter the still with you.” 


110 


a moonshiner's son 


They both carried guns, and under their belts 
the occasional glimmer of a blade was visible 
when the firelight fell upon their stalwart fig- 
ures. Desperadoes both, yet there was about 
the younger of the two, a something softer 
than the exterior warranted, when he glanced at 
the old woman ; or sometimes when he sjmke to 
the boy, Joe, who hauled the fruit to the cave 
and did other odd jobs at the command of his 
father, Bentley. The two stepped back into the 
shadow and waited ; conversing, if at all, in whis- 
pers that did not reach the ear of Bentley, who sat 
down, thankless and sullen, to his supper of bacon 
and dry beans, and fell again to grumbling. 

He ate, not ravenously, but so rapidly that 
his eating had the appearance of greed. Finally 
he stopped, and, looking over his half-lifted 
knife, said to his mother : 

“Whar's Joe?" 

The old woman answered with fear and trem- 
bling : 

“ Joey allowed he didn't want any supper," 
said she. 


THE MOONSHINER’S HOME 111 

“ Wliar is he?” said Bentley. “ Answer a 
plain question, if you’re able. If you ain’t, 
I’ll set about seein’ if I can find him.” 

The old grandmother endeavored to appear 
indifferent. 

“Oh, well,” said she, “if you air bent on 
knowin’ where he is, why, lie’s in the loft. The 
child ware took with misery in his head, an’ he 
ware that fagged I let him go up the ladder and 
rest a bit.” 

“ ‘ Best !’ ” sneered Bentley. “ An’ what’s he 
been a-doin’ of to be needin’ rest, I’d like to 
know ? He’d better hurry up an’ fetch that 
load of apples to the Blue Spring; that’s the 
kind o’ restin’ he better be up ter. If them 
ajiples ain’t thar by sun up I’ll engage ter take 
the mis’ry out o’ his head an’ put it in his back. 
You can tell him that with my compl’mints.” 

He ate on, greedily, as animals eat; to satisfy 
their hunger, without a thought of thanksgiving 
or a throb of gratitude. At length he called to 
the men upon the doorstep : 

“ Bill,” said he, “ wliat’s stirrin’ at the still ?” 


112 


a moonshiner’s son 


The man shuffled uneasily 

“ Well,” said he, “ I aimed to tell you as we 
walked back.” 

“ But I aims to know now,” said Bentley, in 
a tone which proclaimed the brawny distiller 
lord of his domain. His henchmen evidently 
recognized his power and respected it. 

“ Well,” said the man addressed as Bill, “ I 
ain’t heard nothin’ partic’lar stirrin’ ter the 
still, but over at Jube Jarvis’s store ’Lihu 
Hudgins allowed it ware gittin’ pretty hot for 
distillin’ in these parts.” 

“ So it be,” said Bentley ; “ any baby could 
tell you that. Pretty tolerble hot for them as 
don’t kiver up their tracks.” 

“ An’,” continued Bill, “ Budd Dawson’s was 
raided to-night.” 

“ I allowed he would be,” said the moun- 
taineer, nothing daunted, as he emptied his 
glass of cider. “ He let every sort go to his 
place with no more guaranty than a promise 
not to tell whar it ware hid.” 

“An’,” said Bill, “some boys over in the 


THE MOONSHINERS HOME 113 

cove sent word to us to-night to lie low. Some 
of our boys.” 

Instantly the moonshiner pushed back his 
chair, rose, gathered his gun in his brown 
hands and joined the men on the outside. 
Silently the three fell into step, and with long, 
hasty strides crossed the yard, keeping, from 
habit, close under the shadow of the gaunt old 
cedars that studded the little enclosure. Half- 
way across Bentley stopped, and called back to 
the woman in the cabin : 

“ Tell that thar youngster to be at the Kain- 
bow with that thar load o’ apples by sun up if 
he wants to save his hide an’ tallow. ” 

Was it fancy or did something stir in the 
laurel, further back, beyond the cedars? Was 
it a footstep creeping back into the denser 
shadow ? A figure of a man ? Another and 
another, cowering under the thick stunted 
growth ? Was it the glitter of a rifle that flashed 
for a moment across the little clearing, disappear- 
ing in the laurel thicket ? The distillers paused, 
held their breath a moment and passed on. 

8 


114 


a moonshiner's son 


“A rabbit, I reckin,” said Bentley. 

“ Sounds mightily like a step,” said Jake 
Underwood. “ Yes, sir, like half a dozen of 
’em,” he added, with a low, mirthless laugh. 

“Shut up, will you?” said Bentley. “You 
air enough, betwixt you, to give a fellow the 
aguy. Takin’ fright at a rabbit, an’ such. 
Wonder, now, if you wouldn’t run from a 
mouse ?” 

The men offered no further opinion. After 
all, they stood in a sort of terror of Bentley that 
cowed them and at the same time quieted their 
fears of other dangers. There was a kind of 
bravado about him which they mistook for 
courage, as people of their class and circum- 
stances are wont to do. 

Only the old woman they had left in the 
cabin was not deceived by it. There was an 
innate integrity about her that shone out and 
scintillated even in the den into which fate had 
cast her. Not for one instant did she mistake 
Bentley’s braggadocio and foolhardiness for 
bravery. She had seen courage, and was ready 


THE MOONSHINERS HOME 115 

to recognize it always. Truly, fate had decreed 
her hard lines, but she considered if only she 
could make the difference plain to the young 
lad sleeping in the loft over-head, she would not 
count her life wholly vain. 

“He’s a good boy, Joe is,” she said, as she 
set away the remnants of the supper. “ He’s a 
good boy an’ I aims to teach him the rights an’ 
wrongs o’ things, if the good Lord spares me.” 

She stepped to the cabin door, to listen for 
any sound of loitering footsteps. Once she 
fancied something stirred ; a shadow crossed the 
yard ; and a moment later the sound of cautious 
footsteps scrambling down the bluff in the rear 
of the house. 

“ A deer,” she said to herself, “ or else some 
o’ the settlement boys takin’ the secret path to 
the still-house. How I do hate that thar path. 
It’s mighty nigh been the ruin o’ me and mine.” 

When all was still again she tip-toed to the 
ladder leading to the loft, placed her hands 
upon the lower rungs and began to mount. 

The window shutter stood wide open, and 


116 


A moonshiner's son 


through it the moonlight fell in broad, silver 
patches upon the floor. By its light she 
found the pallet in the corner, under the low 
eaves, and stood a moment gazing down upon 
the thin, brown face of the young sleeper lying 
there among the quilts her hands had fashioned. 
Then, kneeling, she touched him lightly upon 
the shoulder. The weary fellow did not move ; 
he was sound asleep, utterly exhausted. The 
grandmother laid her hand upon liis head, 
pushing back the heavy masses of hair from 
the smooth, hot forehead. He stirred at the 
gentle touch, and opened his eyes. 

“ What is it, granny ?" he asked ; “ is any- 
thing the matter at the still ?" 

“ Anything at the still ?" That was the bur- 
den of his days and of hers ; the fear that lay 
ever upon their hearts, chilling the warm flow of 
life. 

“ No, thar ain't anything as I knows on. I 
come to see if maybe you couldn't eat a bite, 
son. I have kept it back, a nice supper for you, 
warm in the oven." 


THE MOONSHINER'S HOME 


117 


“No’m,” said Joe, “ I ain't hungry to-night. 
I just allowed I’d rest some before time to haul 
the apples. I ware that tired, looked like I 
couldn’t move.” 

Again the worn old hand caressed the dark 
head tenderly. 

“ I know it, son. I know you air tired. You’re 
worked to death mighty nigh. Granny’d help 
you if she could. I don’t want to rob you of 
your rest, but it’s kinder lonesome-like down- 
stairs, an’ I feel sort o’ cur’us about the still. 
Somehows I can’t make out to rest for thinkin’ 
about it. The hounds have been howlin’ awful, 
too. I’d allowed maybe as your pappy’s gone 
you’d let me fix you a pallet down thar an’ 
you’d take your rest as well maybe, before the 
warm fire.” 

Instantly Joe rose, leaning heavily upon one 
elbow ; he was weary and sick, yet the first hint 
of her need of him was enough to arouse him 
to an effort to please her. His head ached, and 
there was a thumping in his ears like the thun- 
dering of the Blue Creek over the bluff on a 


118 


A MOONSHINER S SON 


stormy night. Half-way down the ladder he 
tottered and caught at the hand put out to stay 
him. 

“ Air the mis’ry that bad, son ?” his grand- 
mother asked, with anxious voice. 

“ It's pretty bad,” said Joe, as he sank in a 
chair and dropped his head in his hands. 

For a brief moment the two were silent ; they 
were very dear to each other, the old woman 
and the young boy, understanding each other’s 
needs and sharing each other’s hardships. A 
similar fate had fostered in them similar sym- 
pathies. 

“Granny,” said Joe, after a long pause, 
“sometimes I almost think it ain’t worth while 
to try.” 

She looked up at him with a startled expres- 
sion in the faded old eyes, yet all she said was : 

“ Joey !” in that wounded, hurt way that 
never failed to appeal to him. 

“ I don’t mean as I ain’t goin’ to try,” said 
Joe. “For your sake, granny, I am goin’ to 
keep on, but I reckon it air all for your sake.” 


THE MOONSHINER’S HOME 


119 


“An' for your own, son,” said granny. “A 
boy must always do the best that's in him for 
his own sake ; for the sake of his conscience an’ 
his hereafter. Always remember that, son ; 
tliar’s that to be endured an' done always for 
the sake o' them that love us, or that we-uns 
love ; an’ tliar's something must be done for a 
body's own sake. We have got to make the 
best of wliat the good Lord gives us.” 

She always quieted and encouraged him by 
her quiet forbearance and unswerving faith, yet 
the way seemed rough indeed to the overworked 
boy. 

“ I don't appear to have much chance,” he 
said with a sigh. “ Just no sliowin' at all.” 

The old woman got up and began gathering 
the pillows off a bed that stood in a corner of 
the room ; then she spread a black bearskin be- 
fore the fire and proceeded to lay the pillows 
upon it, making a warm, comfortable pallet. 
Once she paused in her work and looking at the 
listless figure in the chair, said : 

“ I reckon we-uns don't always know what a 


120 


a moonshiner’s son 


cliance may be when we see it. I see a lily 
once, growin’ in a mud hole — ” 

Joe said nothing, yet the beauty of the 
thought was not wholly lost upon him. When 
the pallet was ready he stretched himself upon 
it, and lay in the warm glow of the fire, thinking 
of the lily, while his grandmother plied her 
knitting needles. After a long silence he said, 
dreamily, as though unconscious he was speak- 
ing: 

“Some one must a-dropped a seed thar, I 
reckon.” 

“ Wliar ?” said granny ; she had forgotten 
about the lily. 

“Why, in the mud hole,” said Joe. “ Some 
one must a-dropped a seed thar, an’ the lily 
come of it, I’m tliinkin’.” 

“ Maybe so,” said the old woman, “ else the 
winds fetched it. Anyhow, it was thar, an’ 
growin’ pretty as you ever see, spick an’ span 
an’ clean, as though it was h’isted on top of the 
bigges’ mountain hereabouts. I ware plumb 
pleased to see it ; it ware like a sermon t, 


THE MOONSHINER’S HOME 


121 


mighty nigh. An’ it almost seemed to say it 
could keep itself clean spite of the mud about 
it. I always think of that lily when I see you- 
uns drug off to that thar hole in the bluff whar 
the laws of the State air broke, and the laws o’ 
God A’mighty trompled under foot.” 

As the heat struck through the boy’s chilled 
and thinly clad body, and the warm blood be- 
gan to circulate more quickly, the pain in his 
head became less severe, his languor disap- 
peared and Joe began to talk more freely. 

“ Granny,” said he, “ guess what I done to- 
day ?” 

“I dunno what you done to-day,” said 
granny, “ but I know you works too steady ; 
that’s what I know.” 

“ This wasn’t work,” said Joe. “ It was just 
fun. I made a latch for the big gate, that will 
open and shut for a touch. I made it up myse’f ; 
all out of my own head. Jube Jarvis, from 
the settlement, stopped to see it as he ware 
passin’, and let on as how I might get a patent 
for it if I ware minded to try. I ain’t carin’ for 


122 


a moonshiner’s son 


no patent ; all I care for is makin’ the thing 
up.” 

“ You air workin’ too steady,” insisted 
granny. “ When I see you bendin’ over that 
tliar cliist, so happy an’ contented it makes you 
forgit you air tired, I knows you air workin’ too 
steady an’ a-killin’ of yourse’f.” 

Joe’s eyes flashed for an instant : — 

“ Does it make you feel any better to see me 
haulin’ apples to a wildcat still before daybreak 
of a mornin’ ?” said he. “ I tell you, granny, 
when I mount that tliar cart an’ sneak off 
through the woods, snake-like, in the shadow, I 
feel like a thief. But when I’m at that chist, 
I plumb forget the still, an’ the smell of the 
b’ilin’ liquor, an’ the crunchin’ of apjdes in the 
mill. I forget ole Kit an’ the wagin’ creepin’ 
along under the dark of the trees. I forget 
ev’rything but the things beggin’ of me to make 
’em ; to turn ’em out with my tools. I’ll do it 
some day, granny ; you’ll see.” 

The old woman listened, pleased in spite of 
herself. She had always felt as if the boy were 


THE MOONSHTNEIl’s HOME 123 

indeed her own since the day his dying mother 
had given him into her keeping, begging her as 
far as possible to shield him from his father. 
Bentley had dragged the boy into service when 
he was too small, indeed, to do more than gather 
up the apples from under the trees in the 
orchard. Yet, drudge though he was, Joe 
worked with tolerable patience so long as he 
was permitted, at odd hours, the use of the tools, 
which, with the help of Jube Jarvis he had 
been able to collect. And, indeed, it was not 
the work itself, but the nature of the work that he 
objected to at the still. He was ignorant of the 
great mysterious law of conscience ; yet, in the 
heart of the lonely boy among the hills of Ten- 
nessee, conscience, that defier of circumstance 
and of conditions, had made for herself an 
abode. 

The fire burned low in the black fireplace ; the 
flickering blaze cast shadows, fitful and unreal, 
upon the face pressed against the pillow ; the 
great logs fell apart; the grandmother’s knitting 
needles no longer clicked ; only the low breath- 


124 


a moonshiner’s son 


ing of the sleeping boy broke the stillness of the 
room. Then the baying of a hound, far away 
in a copse below, sounded upon the night ; 
nearer and nearer, until the old grandmother 
awoke with a start and began to knit vigorously 
for a moment, in the dark. Then, fully awake, 
she called softly : — 

“ Joey ? Air you’uns asleep, son ?” 

“ No’m,” was the answer. “ I ware noddin’ 
some, but the hound woke me up. I ware lyin’ 
here thinkin’ about that last time I druv ole 
Kit ter the still. I ware not right gentle with 
her, I reckon. Poor ole Kitty ; her an’ me 
have had some tolerable hard licks I’m thinkin.’ 

“ The last time I druv her over to the Blue 
Spring with a load of apples she appeared poorly; 
leastways she wouldn’t go fast enough to pleas- 
ure me, who ware honin’ to get back to that 
tool chist. So I just lit off that thar load an’ 
cut a poplar saplin’, thinkin’ to tetcli her up a 
bit. But the first lick I give her the critter 
turned an’ give me such a look! My ! my ! I 
can’t ever furgit that look. I just turned an’ 


THE MOONSHINER’S HOME 125 

flung that tliar saplin’ over the bluff an’ asked 
ole Kit’s pardon like a man. I couldn’t for the 
life of me, granny, help thinkin’ o’ that other 
mule critter the parson told about over at 
meetin’ onc’t. The one as turned round an’ 
talked to the prophet as was tryin’ to drive her 
into the wrong place. My ! how that tliar hound 
do bark ; he must a-treed somethin’.” 

Ah ! had he known, had he guessed, what it 
was the old dog had “ treed,” he would not have 
been lying there dreaming in the semi-dark- 
ness with that contented look upon his face, 
as he talked of Balaam and his ass. The fire 
died in the big fireplace ; the room grew dark. 
The boy dropped to sleep again, and the grand- 
mother stole off to her bed in the corner. It was 
still dark when Joe awoke and slipped noise- 
lessly out the door. As he laid the gear upon 
the mule’s back, he said : 

“ I hope thar ain’t many more loads like this 
for you an’ me, Kitty.” He paused. Far away 
to the east a faint red flush streaked the sky ; 
young birds were chirruping in their nests; the 


126 


a moonshiner’s son 


gorge, wrapped in its mantle of mist, bluer than 
the blue heavens at noonday, lay at his feet ; the 
spell of the place and the hour was upon him. 

“ I wish,” said he, “ I wish to heaven this 
ware the last trip ; the very last, for you an’ 
me. I wish that tliar fog would never have to 
hide me from the eye of man again. I wish 
it!” 

Did the mists laugh ? Was the breath of the 
old beast against his cheek an “ amen !” to that 
rash but fervent wish ? For a moment Joe was 
almost startled. 

“ It sounded like a prayer almost,” said he. 
Then he bounded lightly to the mule’s back, a 
mode of riding common among the young driv- 
ers of those mountain carts, and chirruped softly. 
But instantly he dropped the lines, and, stretch- 
ing himself almost flat upon the mule’s back, 
craned forward in an effort to pierce the mists. 
Something was coming up the secret trail ; foot- 
steps, and voices without any attempt at silence 
or concealment. Frightened, startled as he was, 
Joe. thought of the hound whose baying he had 


THE MOONSHINER'S HOME 127 

heard in the night, and at the same moment 
there flashed through his memory a recollection 
of his own rash wish that this might be his last 
trip to the still under the bluff. 

-With scarcely a breath he slipped from the 
mule’s back, as the steps came nearer and the 
voices became more distinct. Instantly he knew 
the secret trail was a secret no longer ; some- 
thing whispered him the old law-breaking days 
were over and done with ; yet, the moment had 
its terrors, its dangers. Scarcely daring to 
breathe, he crouched low upon his face under 
the mule’s belly, while the officers passed so 
near he could have put out his hand and touched 
them. 

Thank God for the mists, the friendly mists, 
hiding him, indeed, for “the last time ” from 
the eye of man ! 


CHAPTER VI 


BEHIND THE RAINBOW FALLS 

Among the shadows of the laurel, scarcely 
fifty feet from Bentley’s door, two figures had 
been crouching for hours. At last the cabin 
door opened, and another figure, a big burly 
mountaineer, stood a moment in the lighted 
doorway before dropping down upon the step, 
to smoke his pipe and wait grumblingly for his 
supper/ 

The moon shone resplendent, but it was the 
firelight behind his big, broad back that made 
distinct the figure upon the doorstep. One of 
the watchers in the brush touched the sleeve of 
his companion : 

“ That’s him,” he whispered, “ that’s Bent- 
ley himself. He is at home for his supper, I 
dare say.” 

44 Then,” whispered the other , 44 we had as well 

128 


BEHIND THE RAINBOW FALLS 


129 


go Oil ; queer the chief lost that diagram, but 
Jackson said he could lead the others to the 
spot if you could direct me ; can you do it, 
Combs ?” 

“ No, not by moonlight. I thought I could, 
but I am all turned around to-night. We must 
just trail the old beast to his lair ; that’s all we 
can do. But there’s the hoy Grim mentioned, 
we mustn’t forget to look out for him. I haven’t 
seen any boy ; have you ?” 

“ No, but Jackson saw one at the store several 
times while he was out reconnoitring. He 
thinks it might be the one we are after. In 
fact Grim intimated as much.” 

“ Said he was ‘ sharp as a briar,’ too. Hush ! 
some one is coming.” 

There were cautious steps among the shadows 
on the other side of the lighted clearing before 
the door. A moment later two other figures 
advanced stealthily toward the figure upon the 
step. 

“ His confederates,” whispered Combs. 
“ Must have gotten wind of the raid on Daw- 


130 


a moonshiner’s son 


son ; sh-h, lie low there ! They are quarreling 
about something. Listen.” 

They crouched closer to the earth, fairly 
hugging the ground, as the moon climbed higher 
in the heavens and the laurels became more and 
more insecure. From the doorstep came the 
sound of voices, guarded but angry; evidently 
the old distiller and his confederates were not 
on the best of terms this evening. After awhile 
the older man got up and went in to his supper 
while the others waited outside. The chief’s 
deputies waited also, crouched among the 
shadows, afraid to stir lest some stray moonbeam 
should direct the eyes of the wary distillers to 
their hiding place. At last Bentley pushed back 
his chair and, shouldering his gun, joined the 
men on the doorstep, and the three passed like 
shadows across the little moonlighted yard, dis- 
appearing down the secret trail to the still. The 
shadows among the laurel arose and followed 
without the slightest hesitation ; although they 
understood they might at any moment step into 
some trap set for their undoing. 



SHOT FOLLOWED SHOT 
(Page 136) 


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BEHIND THE RAINBOW FALLS 


131 


They had walked for nearly a mile when the 
tramp suddenly ended. There was a sound of 
water ; a rich, round gurgle at first, and softened 
by distance ; then as they drew nearer, the full, 
round roar of the cataract tumbling from the 
bluff. The next moment they saw it, a sheet of 
white, a dash of frothy silver in the moonlight, 
against which the figures of the three distillers 
stood out like giant silhouettes. There was no 
necessity for whispering now, the cataract 
drowned all other sounds. 

“ This is the place,” said Combs. “ The still 
is directly here, somewhere. Don’t take your 
eye off those men for an instant ; watch that big 
fellow there ; that’s Bentley, you know. Don’t 
lose sight of them — ” 

Did the earth open and swallow them ? 
Without one step from the spot on which they 
were standing, seemingly without one step for- 
ward, the distillers had disappeared. The 
deputies clutched each other in silence; they 
were so close that each could hear the breathing 
of the other above the noise of the cataract. 


132 


a moonshiner's son 


What had become of the distillers ? This was 
the question trembling upon their lipos, when a 
hand reached from the shadow and tapped Combs 
upon the shoulder lightly. “ Be quiet/' said 
the chief's voice, “ and step further back into 
the shadow. The boys are back here. The dis- 
tillers are behind that waterfall. How they got 
there is the question we are trying to decide. 
Jackson is over there now trying to find the 
entrance to the cave; for evidently there is a 
cave back there." 

They stepped back into the denser shadows, 
near enough, however, to keep watch on the 
waterfall in case the law-breakers should leave 
before the plans for attack should be perfected. 
The chief peered into the brake more than once 
to ascertain if the brave young deputy might 
be in sight. At last he came, his finger upon 
his lips, motioning silence. The posse drew 
their heads together and listened while he ex- 
plained the situation of the cascade and its 
curiously hidden cave. “ There is a cascade 
above," said he; “a long, swift current that 


BEHIND THE RAINBOW FALLS 133 

tumbles over a jagged rock bed before it makes 
the final plunge over the bluff. There is a cave 
behind the fall ; the best concealed one I ever 
saw. I failed to find the slightest opening until 
a moment since, when the three distillers dropped 
seemingly into the earth. There are four or five 
of them in there, however, and there is death 
behind there for somebody. When they disap- 
peared I searched the spot. All I found was a 
curious little step, right into the waterfall. One 
would suppose to step into it would be to go 
down a hundred feet into that still-looking pool 
of blackish water. I didn’t see the step ; I 
merely tried it. I thought if they could take 
it I could, and I did. But first I put my ear to 
the rocks above on the left side of the cave, and 
I could hear them talking. They are either 
drinking, or else they count upon the noise of 
the fall to drown their voices, for they are evi- 
dently not trying to speak low. On the con- 
trary, they seem to be having rather a good time. 
The cave isn’t deep, it is merely a sort of hollow, 
a room under the rocks, without, I believe, any 


134 


a moonshiner's son 


other opening than the one through the Fall. 
They are tough old customers, and we shall 
probably have a tussle before we take them. 
Bentley we will never take alive, unless we take 
him in a drunken stupor. I am at your service, 
sir." He turned to the chief and lifted his hat ; 
he was quite ready to beard the lion in his lair 
if his superior so ordered. 

But the chief had different plans. He drew 
his men further back into the shadow, but quite 
near enough to keep guard upon the entrance to 
the cave. He had decided to wait until mid- 
night to make the attack ; at that time the dis- 
tillers would in all probability be drunk, or 
asleep, and off their guard. 

The plan met with general approval. 

“ We shall probably get the boy, too, by 
waiting," said Jackson. “ Grim said he gener- 
ally came over awhile after midnight to relieve 
the others before day." 

And while they waited, the distillers, not 
dreaming that they were caught like rats in a 
trap, were carousing the night away. 


BEHIND THE RAINBOW FALLS 


135 ' 


As the time wore on the jug circulated freely, 
and the big, red eye of the furnace gleamed ; a 
sullen gleam that lighted up the faces of the 
distillers and drew their silhouettes as the moon 
had drawn them, in gigantic black pictures upon 
the wall of rocks. 

And while the time slipped away the one pass 
to freedom was watched by the old chief and his 
dauntless young deputies. But the distillers were 
too drunk to care now. They sang, and drank 
again, with only the white foam of the water be- 
tween them and the despised “ revernuers.” At 
midnight the revel ended. One of the men had 
fallen asleep with his head dropped back against 
the rocks. The furnace fire showed his face, blood 
red in the lurid glow. And, suddenly, while the 
young distiller slept, a strange form stepped down 
into the white spray of the water-fall; another, and 
yet another, until there were four. At last the 
officers stood within the long-sought illicit work- 
shop of Elijah Bentley and his gang. There was 
not a sound until the chief clicked his weapon 
into cock ; then— the distillers turned and — saw. 


136 


A moonshiner's son 


They rose, as one man, and grasped tlieir 
gnus, scattered' over the floor of the cavern. 
They gave no more heed to the chiefs order to 
surrender than they gave to the cataract tumb- 
ling from the rocks over their heads. The 
sleeper over against the wall suddenly awoke, 
sprang to his feet and fired recklessly into the 
crowd. The shot was promptly answered from 
the officers, firing into the air. For the 
chief had given orders that shooting should be 
done only for intimidation until orders were 
given to the contrary ; and then only as a matter 
of defense. 

But the moment the first shot was fired the 
distillers were wild. Shot followed shot, mingling 
with the rattle of falling stone, the roar of the 
water, and the chief’s hurried commands to 
“ surrender.” In the midst of the confusion 
the big, burly figure of Bentley pressed for- 
ward ; his eyes were bloodshot, and he breathed 
like an animal, brought to bay. He carried his 
gun, stock forward, as though about to present 
it to the deputy standing nearest him. The men 


BEHIND THE RAINBOW FALLS 


137 


fell slightly back, awaiting the surrender of the 
leader, when, quick as a flash, the distiller 
whisked his weapon into position, and before the 
noise of the report had ceased to vibrate through 
the cavern the waiting deputy fell forward, dead. 

Another shot instantly followed, but the wiry 
old wildcatter was too quick for them. With a 
cry of rage he turned and leaped into the cata- 
ract. As he went down the chiefs bullet struck 
him, squarely between the shoulders, and a 
moment later the sound of his heavy body 
striking the pool far below could be heard 
above the confusion. 

In the midst of the tumult some one banged 
the furnace door shut and the place was in 
darkness, save for the moonbeams falling 
through the water-curtain, showing the strug- 
gling figures about the cave’s mouth. 

When the struggle ended the chief cast up 
the result: he had destroyed the still and some 
fifteen barrels of brandy. He had a coat where 
he had expected to have a prisoner, the man 
having shed his garment and made good his 


138 


a moonshiner’s son 


escape. He had wounded one man slightly, 
and another unto death ; for Bentley, he knew, 
carried his death wound, if he had not been 
drowned in that terrible leap he had made. 
Jackson carried a bullet in his left arm, Combs 
had a gash across his face, while the fourth 
man lay back behind the waterfall, dead. The 
chiefs hat had a bullet hole in the crown, show- 
ing how close had been his own danger. 

But he was not ready to give up the battle . 

“ We must capture Bentley,” said he. “ If 
he is alive we must carry him back with us ; at 
all events, we must be sure he is dead. Those 
fellows are merely hid out in the woods. I am 
going to take one of you boys with me to the 
settlement. Grim said there was a man there 
who had a couple of fairly trained bloodhounds.” 

“ Fox hounds, captain,” said Combs. “ And 
I think you’ll have a hard time getting them, 
too. These fellows are not any too ready to 
help run each other down.” 

“ He said,” said Jackson, “ that they were 
‘ fox hounds with a blood streak in them/ and I 


BEHIND THE KAINBOW FALLS 139 

am for getting them. If we fail we will at least 
have a chance at the boy Grim mentioned.” 

Reaching the settlement, they found they 
needed ammunition and the chief ordered the 
storekeeper called up. Mr. Jarvis heard only 
such an account of the raid as they chose to 
give. It was none of his business, and so he 
asked no questions. Had he done so, the 
question burning in his heart, must have sprung 
to his lips: “Had they trapped Joe?” The 
question was unexpectedly answered without his 
asking ; the chief had received his ammunition 
and was turning away when he stopped and 
looked the storekeeper in the eye : 

“ Do you know anything about a boy con- 
nected with this business ?” 

Farewell to the brave old boast of the man 
who “lied for nobody.” Had there been a 
moment for thought perhaps it might have been 
different ; but there was not. Yet, between the 
officer’s question and his own reply, the store- 
keeper felt that he had undone the principles of 
a lifetime. Truth to him was not a hobby, but 


140 


a moonshiner’s son 


a grandly magnificent principle ; something 
that made radiant an humble and obscure life. 
Yet, to the chief’s question he replied : 

“ Thar ain’t any boy connected with it.” 

“ What boy was that at the store the other 
day, some of my men were here ?” 

“ My boy. Grim had a grudge against him, 
that’s all. Boy tried to lick him once ; that’s 
all tliar was to it.” 

“ Where is he now ?’ 

“ At home, in bed.” 

The fact that it never once occurred to the 
officer to doubt him rendered the lie he had 
spoken only the more detestable to old Jube. 
He felt that he had not only spoken an untruth, 
but that he had betrayed the confidence of men. 
He heard the hoofs of the horses galloping back 
to the scene of the late struggle ; there was no 
need of secrecy now. When the last sound of 
the hoofs had died away, down the sandy road, 
the storekeeper turned back to the counter where 
he had lately stood with his midnight customers. 
His face wore a troubled expression. “I told 


BEHIND THE RAINBOW FALLS 


141 


a lie,” said lie. “ A common lie.” He leaned 
upon the counter, liis chin in his palm. 

“ He’s a little feller — no mammy-^-worse 
than — no daddy — good boy — ” he spoke slowly, 
with long pauses between the words, as though he 
might have been arguing the matter with his con- 
science — “ never harmed nothin’ in the worl’, — 
beset by evil all the days of his life — ; I dunno 
— ef I done right or no — , but God A’mighty 
furgive me ef the lie ware wrong.” 

And the old storekeeper dropped down upon 
an upturned keg, and burying his face in his 
hands sobbed as unreservedly and as bitterly as 
ever the little ill-treated stripling, for whom 
the lie had been spoken — asleep at that moment 
in his cabin on the bluff — had wept for the 
hardships of fate. 

To him all the props of his character seemed 
crumbling about him, a pitiful wreck. Truth 
had been its foundation stone, and the staunch 
old builder had accepted of himself no com- 
promise for meaner material. 

Thus is truth the foundation of all genuine 
self-respect. 


CHAPTEB VII 


THE BEST OF FRIENDS MUST PART 

It was over ; the officers had passed by in the 
fog, unseen and unseeing. So close had they 
been to the little cart and its frightened driver 
that they might almost have heard the beating 
of the boy’s heart had they stopped long enough 
to listen. 

But they had not stopped, and the friendly 
mists had veiled both Joe and the tell-tale load 
of apples until the danger had passed by. When 
the last sound of horses’ hoofs had died away in 
the distance Joe crept out from his hiding place 
and began rapidly unloading the fruit, by dump- 
ing it into a huge trough from which the hogs 
were fed. As long as lie could remember he 
had been drilled for this very occasion ; the 
coming of the revenue officers. Yet, at the real 
moment of danger he never once thought of his 
142 


THE BEST OF FRIENDS MUST PART 143 

drilling ; his own good sense told him precisely 
what to do. 

“They might come back,” he whispered, 
patting as he did so the old mule^ back. He 
had long had a habit of talking to the mule ; 
they two had been so often together upon that 
solitary journey down the secret trail to the 
hidden distillery that he had come to look upon 
the old beast as something almost human ; almost 
a friend indeed. 

“ They might come back, and we-uns don’t 
want ’em to come up on this here load, now, do 
we Kitty ?” 

The hand upon the mule’s back trembled in 
spite of the empty cart. In all his life Joe could 
not remember to have heard a horse’s hoof along 
that obscure little trail, other than old Kit’s. 
That noisy, bold clatter that had just passed by 
in the gray fog’s arms was ample assurance that 
the path was no longer a secret one. 

He led the old mule into the barn and pulled 
down an armful of hay. 

“You did behave a lady, that’s what you 


144 


a moonshiner's son 


did,” he whispered in his old friend's ear. 
“ One word from you-uns an' we wouldn't be 
here now, would we, Kitty ?” 

He tossed a half-dozen ears of corn into the 
trough and then went out noiselessly, glancing 
cautiously about him, lest the foe might still be 
lurking near. But all was silent save the sound 
of the old mule munching the dry corn. Care- 
fully fastening the latch he picked his way 
quickly to the cabin door, and lifting the latch 
entered. 

Granny had risen and was sitting over the 
fireplace blowing upon the red embers. Joe 
knelt at her side and mechanically relieved her 
of her task. But before the red blaze had be- 
gun to send its little forked tongues in and out 
the cedar splinters he had told the story of the 
raid. 

The old woman listened, trembling and 
frightened, offering no interruption, save an 
occasional “ I knowed it “ It was bound to 
come or else, “I always said it would be so.” 

All the morning they sat there in the cabin, 


THE BEST OF FRIENDS MUST PART 145 

afraid to stir, waiting, hoping, dreading the 
news that must come. At last granny turned 
to Joe and said : 

“ Hadn’t you-uns better slip down to the 
bluff an’ see what’s happened, son ?” 

“No, granny,” said Joe. “I don’t do any 
more ‘ slippin’ ’ round. I’m done with that. 
If I go to that thar still I’ll go open an’ above- 
board, same’s anybody else. But I’d rutlier 
die as to go thar. I hope you won’t ask me ; 
oh, I hope you won’t ask me, granny !” 

She would not ask him again, and so the day 
wore on to noon, and still no tidings came of 
the midnight raid. She would have gone her- 
self had she known positively that Bentley had 
been taken. All her life since the beginning 
of the illicit establishment she had had before 
her a picture of him lying dead and still under 
a jungle of mountain laurel. Yet now, although 
she dreaded the worst, she could not bring her- 
self to believe that he was really dead or had 
been taken prisoner. And on this account she 
dared not go to look for him. Bentley was not 
10 


146 


A MOONSHINER S SON 


one to be taken unawares ; it was more than 
probable that he was merely in hiding some- 
where, she thought, until the danger should 
have passed by. In this event she knew that 
his anger would be almost unbearable should 
she, by going to seek him, bring upon him 
some new danger. So she sat there with Joe 
in the lonely cabin, hoping, fearing — dreading 
always and listening for the well-known step 
upon the walk. 

It had indeed, as Joe said, been “ hard licks ” 
for both the old woman and her grandson. 
There had not been a day when either of them 
would not have rejoiced to know the dull, dark 
days were over. Blows for the boy, grumblings 
and growlings for the mother ; that was what 
their life had been since the still was put in 
operation. Yet neither of them had thought 
or hoped for such an ending as they now feared 
had come, though, to be sure, they had learned 
to know long since that it might come at any 
moment. The old mother, perhaps more than 
the boy, had dreaded and expected it, yet it 


THE BEST OF FRIENDS MUST PART 147 

held its surprise and its sorrow for her, for al- 
though Bentley was rough and ungracious to 
an extent that was almost cruel at times, still 
he was the husband of her child, her daughter, 
and nature was not dead in her. Then she 
fancied he would be home by and by, wanting 
his dinner and desperately angry should any- 
thing indeed have happened at the still. 

But the noon passed, and the shadows began 
to creep across the little yard and lay upon the 
doorstep. Surely with the darkness he would 
come, else Bill or Jerry, or some of the others 
would bring tidings. They could not have all 
been killed. 

Joe shared her anxiety to the full. Only once 
there had come to him a thought that the little 
tool-chest would no longer have to be hurried 
under the bed at the sound of a well-known 
footstep crunching the gravel outside the door. 
But he quickly put the thought aside as some- 
thing wicked at this time of doubt and of 
danger. Once, too, he remembered his wish, and 
the answer that had come like a thunderbolt 


148 


a moonshiner’s son 


straight from the sky. It frightened him ; it 
was as though the intensity of his desire had 
made itself into a prayer which God had thrown 
back at him granted, but with such fearful re- 
sults that the granting seemed a curse — that 
terrible wish that it might be the last time he 
should ever take the trip over the secret trail to 
the still under the bluff. Thinking of the wish 
reminded him of Kit ; she had had nothing to 
eat since early morning. He got up and went 
out to the barn ; the old mule came to meet 
him, rubbing her nose against his arm. With 
sudden impulse he threw his arms around the 
animal’s neck and burst into tears. 

His tears relieved him ; the long strain of 
suspense had told upon him ; but the old mule, 
his companion in loneliness, had awakened 
within him that spirit of courage natural to 
boyhood. 

He returned to the cabin and insisted upon 
helping granny to get supper. After a simple 
meal of broiled bacon and lioecake, a potato 
roasted upon the hearth among the ashes, and a 


THE BEST OF FBI ENDS MUST PART 149 


cuj) of steaming coffee, the two sat themselves 
down again to — wait. 

This time they had not long to wait. The 
moonlight lay upon the gravel outside, white and 
ghostly, drawing with startling distinctness the 
figure of a man, tall and gaunt, skulking across 
the yard to the cabin door. Without knocking, 
a hand was lifted to the latch, the string care- 
fully drawn and the frightened face of Jake 
Underwood appeared in the doorway. Lifting 
a finger for silence he entered cautiously and 
drew the door fast behind him, pulling the latch- 
string to the inside, where it dangled lazily be- 
neath the wooden fastening Joe had made for it. 

“ I ware afeard some o’ them revenuers might 
be about,” Underwood remarked by way of 
apology. 

Granny silently pointed to a chair ; she was 
too frightened to speak, though she motioned 
the man to go on, knowing that he had come 
with news of the raid. 

“ Mis’ Bentley,” said the law-breaker, “we- 
uns have had some mighty bad luck over to the 


150 


a moonshiner’s son 


still. Me an’ Bill had heard some talkin’ an’ 
we come over here last night to warn Lige. But 
we ware most too late.” He paused, hesitated, 
then broke out fiercely : “ I’ve got awful news 
for you, Mis’ Bentley, awful. I’d rather cut 
my tongue out as to tell you, but it’s got to 
come. After me an’ Lige an’ Bill left here last 
night we went to the still to hide the liquor 
against the revenuers an’ to slip out o’ sight our- 
selves if thar should be any danger. 

“ When we got thar everything looked that 
safe an’ secure we misdoubted thar ware any 
revenuers around. An’ so, tempted by the 
warmth an’ the keg o’ brandy we kept circu- 
latin’, we decided to stay thar an’ take our 
chances. It ware not half hour until we heard 
’em at the very mouth o’ the still. We ware 
that set back we couldn’t move for a minute, an’ 
the next minute ware too late. They ware fairly 
upon us, though we made a scramble for the 
woods as best we could. One o’ the boys left 
his coat in the officers’ hands, an’ Lige carried 
a bullet in his back that disabled him before 


THE BEST OF FKIENDS MUST PABT 151 

we could get to safe cover. We got down 
in a sort of a brake, though, amongst the laurel, 
an’ hid tliar while the revenuers broke up the 
still. We ware that close we could hear the 
licks as they knocked things to pieces. When 
things got toler’ble quiet I drug Lige back 
wliar the growth ware thicker, an’ we-uns lay 
tliar waitin’ for daylight. About daybreak I 
could still hear the men scoutin’ about lookin’ 
for us. Lige ware ravin’ by this time, plumb 
out’n his head. About twelve o’clock to-day he 
died.” 

His voice sank to a whisper, carrying with it 
the horror of that which he had seen and heard 
in the brush. The old woman was crying softly, 
but Joe was too frightened and bewildered for 
tears. The tragedy of the law-breaker had come 
home to him in all its sudden, startling horror. 
After a moment’s silence the moonshiner went 
on with his story : 

“The boys got away somehows, but Lige 
ware dead. I come up here to tell you-uns, so’s 
Joe could go over thar an’ haul him home.” 


152 


a moonshiner's son 


But Joe sprang to his feet with a startled pro- 
test : “ Oh, I can’t," said he ; “ I can’t go back 
to that place ! I’m afeard o’ him — the dead ; an’ 
I’m afeard o’ the livin’. The revenuers’ll be 
hid in the brake an’ I’m afeard they’d shoot 
me, or else fetch me away to prison. Don’t send 
me. Granny, they’d know I’d been haulin’ the 
ajiples ; they’d be sure to harm me in some 
way.’’ 

“ Now, that’s a true word,’’ said the visitor. 
“ I never thought o’ that. But I don’t see who 
else can go. I can’t ; they know I belong to the 
gang ; I crawled half way here on my hands an’ 
knees. It ought to be some one that ain’t got 
any call to be afeard.’’ He was silent a mo- 
ment, thinking, then said with sudden inspira- 
tion : 

“Jube Jarvis would go. Jube ain’t got any 
call to be afeard o’ anybody.’’ 

“ No,’’ said granny, “ Jube’s got a good 
name. Nothin’ can’t touch him. I reckin Jube 
would go an’ fetch that misguided one home to 
a decent bury in’.’’ 


THE BEST OF FRIENDS MUST PART 153 

“ I can go over an’ ask Jube that word,” said 
Joe, ready to do bis part so long as it did 
not take him back to the despised still. As he 
sped away in the moonlight in search of the 
man who had no call to be afraid of anybody, 
Joe felt, for the first time in his life, the force 
of a good name. Unconsciously he began to 
compare the two men — the dead man lying in 
the brake with no one to carry his body home, 
and the man who had nothing to fear in going 
where the guilty and suspected were afraid to 
venture. Unconsciously, there on the lonely 
mountain road, death behind and danger before 
him, the boy made the great turn in his life 
that was to affect all his after destiny. Scarcely 
realizing that he was speaking, as, lifting his 
tear- washed face to the solemn skies, he recorded 
a vow : “ I mean,” said he, “ to make a good 

name. A good name air worth all gains. A 
man who has got it need be afeard o' nothin’, 
nothin’.” 

He felt the force of it still more when he had 
delivered his message and saw Jube Jarvis, 


154 


a moonshinek’s son 


without a moment’s hesitation, begin to make his 
preparations for bringing home the body hidden 
in the laurel brake. The first thing he did was 
to send for some of the neighbors and request 
their assistance. 

“ Tell ’em to fetch lanterns, son,” said he to 
the messenger, “ an’ all the help they can get.” 

Lanterns ! there was no skulking about this 
man. He was no more afraid to go into this 
den of corruption, spied upon though it was by 
the eye of the law, than he was to go behind his 
own counter. To Joe it was courage perfected. 

“ Mr. Jarvis, ain’t you afeard to fetch lanterns 
down thar? The revenuers maybe hid about.” 

“No, Joe,” said the storekeeper ; “ I don’t do 
nothin’ in the dark. As fur the revenuers, I’d 
rather they know who it be ; then maybe they 
won’t be shootin’ harum-scarum. I ain’t afeard 
o’ the light, ever.” 

Inspired by the man’s courage Joe renewed 
his vow to make a good name. 

“ It’s better than a shot-gun,” he told him- 
self, as he slipped off home again, having seen 


THE BEST OF FRIENDS MUST PART 155 

the men, a full procession and fully lighted, 
start on their way to the deserted cave and the 
laurel brake near by. Later came the simple 
funeral, the burial, and then the place settled 
down into such a quiet as it had never known. 
What days they were to Joe ; no more fear of 
the heavy step on the walk, the threats, the 
drive in the dawn, the fire under the crags and 
the dangers that lurk in the bush. Only the 
long days with granny ; the simple duties about 
the place, such as feeding old Kit, keeping the 
wood cut and the kitchen fire made; and at 
night the tool-chest, and the curious things that 
grew unchallenged beneath his eager hand. 
Happy days, blessed nights ; season of singing 
birds, odorous woods and quiet dreams. And 
then came the awakening ; came the season of 
falling leaves, scarlet and gay gold, drifting 
down to the hollows with the chestnuts and the 
frost-sweetened chinquapins. The Indian pipes 
were in bloom, the golden-rod flaunted a flag in 
every fence corner. To Joe the mountain had 
never been so beautiful ; he had never loved it 


156 


a moonshiner’s son 


before. Hitherto the purple pines had held 
something of terror in their melancholy sough- 
ing ; but now he recognized it as the music that 
had lulled his infancy to slumber. And thus, 
while all nature warmed and throbbed within 
him, came the change ; it must all be given up. 
They were going away. His father’s brother 
had come over from the first bench of the moun- 
tains and persuaded his grandmother that she 
and Joe could not live there alone. He kept a 
“ stage stand,” a kind of rude inn where 
travelers across the mountain sometimes stopped 
for refreshment. She and Joe were welcome to 
a home there, he said ; and “ Joe could help a 
little about the place.” The price the cabin and 
land would bring “ would be used to make the 
old grandmother comfortable in her old age.” 
So, after much persuasion, granny consented. 
Jube Jarvis bought the cabin and Ben Bentley 
dropped the money into his pockets “ for 
granny’s comfort in her old age.” 

Joe was bitterly opposed to going, but his 
uncle had carried the day. 


THE BEST OF FRIENDS MUST PART 157 


The boy had a strong premonition of sorrow 
ahead, born perhaps of the hardships that lay 
behind him. At the last, however, he accepted 
the inevitable and tried to persuade himself that 
all was for the best. 

“ It ain’t been so powerful sunshiny up here,” 
he told himself as he stood upon the bluff’s edge 
taking a last look at the far-away hills across 
the valley. “ It’s been hard licks — nothin’ but 
hard licks all along. It can’t be much worser 
down tliar on the first bench o’ Cumberland 
Mountain than it’s been up here on top, I 
reckin.” . 

His eyes filled with tears, however, when later 
in the day he watched the loading of the wagon 
containing their modest household goods. Two 
strange horses stood in old Kit’s stall, while old 
Kit herself, tied to a sapling, waited for her new 
owner to come and claim her ; for faithful old 
Kit had been sold, along with the house, to 
Jube Jarvis. It was this, perhaps more than any- 
thing else, that had fostered in the boy’s heart a 
distrust of his uncle. He had begged so hard 


158 


A MOONSHINERS SON 


to take Kit, promising to feed and care for her 
with his own hands ; but Bentley had insisted 
that the money would be worth more to granny 
than a worn-out old mule in the corncrib. It 
was this determination to turn all their little 
j>roperty into money that had aroused Joe’s 
suspicions. There was but one comfort about 
the sale of Kit ; Jube Jarvis had bought her. 
Yet when Joe heard the new owner’s voice in 
the house he crept away, so that he might not 
know when she was led off. 

“ Seems like she’s been the only friend I ever 
had,” he said, as he waited behind the house 
until Mr. Jarvis should be gone. 

Once, however, he peeped around the corner 
just at the moment when old Kit lifted her 
head to look that way. Instantly a familiar 
bray fell upon his ear ; Jube Jarvis was lead- 
ing poor Kit away. Joe was seized by a sudden 
impulse. 

“ Mr. Jarvis !” he shouted. “ Oh, Mr. Jarvis ! 
Wait a minute !” 

The new owner of the mule jerked the rope 


THE BEST OF FRIENDS MUST PART 159 

knotted about the animal’s neck, and waited 
until the former owner could catch up with 
him. 

A moment more and without a word he had 
thrown his arms around the neck of his late 
friend in adversity and burst into tears. 

The old mule tried to rub his sleeve with her 
nose, as though she would have returned the 
caress. 

“Come, come now,” said the storekeeper, 
“ what ails ye, Joe, ter be allowin’ as I’d mis- 
treat one o’ God A’ mighty’s critters ? I’ll be as 
keerful o’ old Kit as Joe Bentley ever ware, an’ 
that’s promise enough.” 

Joe drew his rough sleeve across his eyes. 

“ I know it, Mr. Jarvis,” said he. “ I know 
you-uns’ll treat her well. You-uns air fair an’ 
kin’ ter all, man an’ beast, an’ I’m proper glad 
she fell inter your hands so long as she had ter 
go. But her an’ me have seen some tolerble 
hard times tergether, Mr. Jarvis ; an’ somehows 
I can’t think of her as only an ole mule critter ; 
it seems like I ware partin’ from a friend. Fur 


160 


A MOONSHINERS SON 


you see — we ware — sorter — partners like — an’ — 
an’— I loved her.” And again poor Joe dropped 
his head upon Kit’s hack and sobbed. 

The storekeeper had not forgotten the many 
errands Joe had run for him those days at the 
store ; moreover, his own heart was filled with 
forebodings for the boy’s future. 

“ No mammy an’ lots worse than no daddy 
always,” he told himself as he took Joe’s arm 
and led him away, beyond reach of listening 
ears. Perhaps they were never to meet again, 
and he had a parting word to whisper in the 
ear that had ever been open to counsel. 

“ Now, son,” said he, “ I want to give you a 
word to carry along with you ; a short word 
maybe, but one as will go a long ways if you-uns 
will take heed to it. But first I want to say, 
howsomever, that I bought this yere critter 
bekase it ware you-uns’, an’ I knowed as you-uns 
set store by it. I’ve had many a favior at 
you-uns’ hands, Joe.” 

“At mine, Mr. Jarvis?” 

“Yes, sir ; at you-uns’. Sech faviors, to be 



"SEEMS LIKE I WARE PARTIN’ FROM A FRIEND" 
(Page 159) 











THE BEST OF FRIENDS MUST PART 161 

sure, as only a boy can render, but not secli as 
all boys air ready to render. So I have set ’em 
down to you-uns’ credit. An’ I’m takin’ this 
here dumb critter to save you the sorrow of 
seein’ it go to strangers, and maybe a- worritin’ 
bekase it air likely to be mistreated. Now, I 
hope you-uns’ll find as kind a master as ole Kit’s 
coinin’ to, that’s all. I ain’t denyin’ as I mis- 
trusts that thar uncle o’ yours that have 
turned up jest in time to take control o’ your 
granny’s truck an’ other belongin’s. But, Joey, 
I want you-uns to reckerlect this word : it ain’t 
always favor’ble surroundin’s as makes a man 
of a boy. A good seed will grow in mighty bad 
ground sometimes with keerful tendin’. Now, 
you take the advice of a ole man as found you 
friendly an’ wishes you well. In tryin’ to git 
the good things o’ this world, first of all be sure 
an’ get for yourse’f a good name. Get it an’ 
keep it. In the long run o’ time it will stand 
you far more than all the gold an’ silver o’ this 
world. Remember that ; if so be you air pore 
an’ humble, let your motto be ‘ fair an’ square.’ 

11 


162 


a moonshiner’s son 


You’ll find she’ll fetch you out all safe at the 
end.” 

The words were spoken with an earnestness 
that made them doubly impressive. Joe felt 
that the storekeeper shared his own vague doubts 
as to the future awaiting him and his grand- 
mother. 

“ I’ll try to live up to your words, Mr. Jarvis,” 
said he ; “ I’ll surely try.” And without further 
words the two clasped hands in a long good-bye. 
The merchant little suspected how his parting 
advice was to shape Joe’s future. 

When they had parted Joe suddenly turned 
and said : 

“ If I ever git able and come back for her 
you’ll sell old Kit to me, Mr. Jarvis, won’t you ?” 

“ Without any int’rest,” said the storekeeper ; 
“ an’ thar’s my hand on it.” 

There was another long, silent clasp, a fervent 
“ God bless you ” from the storekeeper, and 
they turned their separate ways. 

J oe walked slowly back through the redden- 
ing sumach with his head bent forward upon 


THE BEST OF FRIENDS MUST PART 168 

his breast. The storekeeper’s blessing lingered 
in his ears. Would it follow him indeed 
upon that strange, eventful path into which 
his young feet were but just turning? Alas, 
he would have need of all blessings that might 
come his way. He realized it before the sumach 
came again. 


CHAPTER VIII 


SYLVIA 

The old stage road across the mountain had 
been forsaken long ago. When the railroad 
daringly cut its way through and under the 
great barrier-mountain it practically cut off 
travel through the old ways. The old “ stage 
stands ” are falling to decay ; the old road 
itself has gone to wreck and ruin long ago. 
Land slides have hurled mighty bowlders 
across the way, and the merciless mountain 
torrents have cut trenches, deep and dangerous, 
through the very heart of it. There is little 
left to tell of the once famous popularity of 
the old stage road — only tumble-down rows of 
buildings still marking the sites of former inns, 
and hewn logs, in rotting heaps, where a great 
barn used to shelter the stage horses. 

Only here and there, where the railroad 

164 


SYLVIA 


165 


passed liear without touching, may be found an 
old lodging house. To be sure, travel did 
not abandon the old road in a night ; it was 
years and years before the mountaineer brought 
himself to believe the “ cyars ” were safe. And 
some of the old aristocrats, too, were slow to 
abandon the old way. The big “ stand on 
the first bench ” held its own right along with 
the iron-horse of progress until after the war 
had ended ; and even to-day a traveler may 
find accommodation at the old Rock House 
that is still sometimes called a “ stage stand.” 

It was here that Tom Tate used to find fresh 
horses in the great barn while his passengers 
were finding refreshment at Ben Bentley’s inn. 
Tom always managed to find excuse for stop- 
ping at Bentley’s ; a trace was “ givin’ way,” 
or a wheel needed “ tendin’,” a horse had “ cast 
a shoe,” anything almost, was sufficient to hold 
up the rumbling old stage at Bentley’s inn. 
Generally Tom managed to stop over night, 
but that was when he did not find his passen- 
gers too much for him, as was sometimes the 


166 


A MOONSHINER S SON 


case, when they boldly demanded that he pro- 
ceed at once to the town farther down the 
mountain. 

Always on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Satur- 
days the stage would draw up at the inn door, 
and a moment later, emptied of its load, would 
disappear under the wings of the big barn. 
And then Tom would disappear in the direc- 
tion of a little cabin hidden away among the 
cedars, where his “ baby girl,” Sylvia, would 
be waiting at the window for him. The mo- 
ment the first note of the stage horn could be 
heard floating down the mountain Sylvia would 
be at the window, watching, waiting for Tom. 

Tom Tate was a rough fellow outside, a big, 
burly fellow, with sharp, black eyes and a 
shaggy beard and hair. But there must have 
been something very soft and tender under the 
rough exterior to make the little pinched face 
pressed against the window pane brighten with 
happiness when the familiar music of the stage 
horn sounded among the great Cumberland 
crags. And this same little face, to be sure, 


SYLVIA 


167 


was the cause of all big Tom’s sly manoeuvring 
to hold up the stage over night at Bentley’s. 

It was a very weary face that lay against 
the pillow one afternoon in December waiting 
for Tom’s horn to blow. Four times had Tom’s 
little crippled daughter dragged a twisted foot 
to the window to see if there might be any sign 
of the stage coach coming down the mountain. 

At a certain point, far up the mountain, the 
stage could be seen for one brief moment mak- 
ing the bend that would bring it down upon 
the next bench, one of those odd, level 
stretches peculiar to the Cumberland range. 

Always before sweeping into this “ open ” 
Tom Tate blew a long, mellow call, a signal to 
the little girl in the cabin, who immediately 
took up her stand at the window to watch the 
great coach swing around the curve. 

It was a wistful face, old and young at the 
same time. This may have been because of 
the foot which the rheumatism had dwarfed 
and twisted. It was a very tiny body, too, for 
her years. For although big Tom called her 


168 


a moonshiner’s son 


liis “ baby girl,” Sylvia had passed her twelfth 
year. On the December afternoon that she 
waited for the stage the snow was falling in long, 
shimmery sheets slantwise, making a sort of 
silver veil that rendered it rather doubtful if 
the stage would be visible, after all. Sylvia 
turned from the window with an impatient sigh, 
and limped back to the couch in the chimney 
corner. “ It is so snowy I can’t see the road,” 
said she in the fretful tone of the invalid. “ The 
mountains are like gray ghosts, an’ the trees all 
big blots in the gray storm. I sha’n’t see father 
come round the bench after all.” 

An old woman, Sylvia’s aunt, sat in the 
opposite corner, knitting ; she laid the stocking 
across her knees and began to rope off the 
strands of yellow yarn, saying as she did so : 

“Now, now! I wouldn’t fret. It’ll come 
down just as well may be, the stage will; an’ 
then’ll come Tom, an’ then supper. I’ve got a 
nice, tasty squirrel for you-uns’ supper, too. 
That little boy over to Bentley’s fetched it for 
you-uns.” 


SYLVIA 


169 


The child’s face brightened as she lifted her- 
self on her elbow. 

“Joe! Did Joe fetch it, Aunt Jane? Did 
Joe fetch me a squirrel?” 

“ I reckin that ware his name. It ware that 
boy that come last fall with his gran’ma to help 
about the place. An’ they do say the way old 
Bentley works him is a cryin’ shame. But he 
fetched you-uns a mighty nice, young squirrel 
for your supper. He said p’inted it ware for 
you-uns. ‘ For Silvy’ ware what he said.” 

The small face beamed. 

“ Well, I reckon that means me,” said she, 
laughing merrily. “ Silvy spells me, for true. 
He said he aimed to make me a crutch ; an’ some 
day, he says, he’ll make me a cheer with a little 
rollin’ wheel, so I can just shove myself along. 
He made a crutch for an ole woman down in the 
cove as hadn’t walked a step in twenty years, 
an’ she’s just gettin’ about on that crutch as 
peart as anybody. I hope Joe’ll make mine. 
I’d hate to have to lie here twenty years. Seems 
like I’d rather be dead as to lie here all that 


170 


a moonshiner’s son 


time. Oil, I do hope Joe’ll make my crutch ! 
I think I’d be able to get about on that. Oh, I 
do hope he will !” 

There were tears in the eyes turned to the 
window where the snowflakes were darkening 
the landscape. The voice was a pitiful little 
wail. 

“ He’ll make it,” said the old woman. “ I 
most know he will. They say lie’s real peart 
with his tools. I most know he’ll make it, an’ 
then you’ll be gettin’ well before your pappy 
can make all that money to fetch you to Flur- 
idy with.” 

“ I ain’t lookin’ fur that.” The voice had a 
despairing tone now. “ I ain’t lookin’ fur no for- 
tunes to come droppin’ down the chimney to 
fetch a pore lame gal to Fluridy. If my walkin’ 
depends on that, I’ll be shut up here twenty 
years an’ more, I’m thinkin’. What I looks 
for is that tliar crutch Joe Bentley promised to 
make for me, if his mean ole uncle can be per- 
suaded to let him take time enough to make 
it. I hate meanness.” 


SYLVIA 


171 


“ Why, Silvy !” exclaimed the aunt, “ that’s 
mighty bad manners.” 

“ I hate manners, too,” said Sylvia. “ I hate 
anything that makes ole Bentley anything but 
mean. He is mean ; lie’s meaner’n p’ison. I 
know he makes Joe work all day, an’ then 
don’t always give him a bed to sleep on nights. 
There ! that’s meaner than a dog !” 

“ AVell, then, let it be,” said the old woman. 
“ I have heard as how he got all the ole woman’s 
money, an’ then threated to have ’em both 
druv off the place if she said a word about Joe’s 
workin’. ’Pears like the old lady air tolerble 
fond o’ the boy.” 

“ He’s a good boy,” said Sylvia. She had 
forgotten the stage in her defense of Joe. 
“ He’s a good boy ; he’s goin’ to make me a 
crutch. I’m hopin’ more from that than I am 
from father’s ‘fortune’ that’s to fetch me to 
Fluridy. There! that’s what I think of Joe 
Bentley !” 

“Hush! What was that?” 

She lifted herself to listen ; the very last 


172 


a moonshiner’s son 


note of a horn, mellow and sweet and clear as a 
silver bell, floated down the mountain. 

The girl attempted to spring up, but fell back 
with a low moan upon her pillows. She had 
forgotten the bad foot. 

“ I can’t get up,” she sobbed. “ Help me, 
Aunt Jane. Help me up to the window to see 
father’s stage come down the mountain.” 

The old woman slipped her arm under Sylvia’s 
shoulder and attempted to lift her up, but when 
she tried to balance herself upon the crippled 
foot the pain was so great that she could only 
fall back upon her pillows and sob. 

“ Ye must a-strained it some a-tryin’ to jump 
up,” said Aunt Jane. 

“ An’ now I can’t see father come down,” 
sobbed the sick girl. “Oh, why don’t Joe bring 
my crutch !” 

The stage had turned into the last bend be- 
fore Sylvia reached the window, too late to see 
the rocking old top disappear among the inter- 
vening trees. She was still standing at the 
window, the tears upon her cheeks, when 


SYLVIA 


173 


there came a hurried knocking at the door. 
To the old woman’s “ Come in,” the latch was in- 
stantly lifted and Joe appeared in the doorway. 
Joe, with such a pale, pinched little face that 
old Kit would never have recognized in him the 
beloved master she had carried off in the gray 
dawn to the still under the waterfall. The eyes 
were sunken and weak ; the shoulders had a 
telltale droop, bewailing, without voice, the un- 
natural burdens laid upon them. 

Broken, disappointed, weary unto death, but 
still the same honest, uncompromising Joe. He 
carried in his hand a little wooden crutch, care- 
fully wadded with part of an old comfort 
where the frail arm must rest upon the saddle. 

He walked straight up to the window where 
Sylvia had climbed upon a tall chair to watch 
for the stage. 

“ I have fetched your crutch, Silvy,” said he. 
“ Measure an’ see if it’s the proper length so I 
can trim it off some if it’s too long. Measure 
right quick, please,” he said, seeing the girl was 
about to break into raptures. “ I have slipped 


174 


A moonshiner’s son 


off, an’ I must run right back. Here, just run 
yer arm over that, an’ take this handle in your 
hand. There ! now let’s see you go !” 

The laugh that accompanied the words seemed 
almost out of place upon the thin lips that 
had known, alas ! too little of boyish mirth. He 
tarried but a moment to see her try his gift ; 
her delight was quite thanks enough and lie 
waited for no other, though he heard her laugh 
and the words that she called after him. 

“ Oh, Joe ! I reckon this air the nearest I’ll 
come to Fluridy, and I thank you-uns lots.” 

He had heard about the Florida plan, and, like 
Sylvia, he never expected it to come any nearer 
consummation than it had already come. They 
had laughed together over the fortune Tom Tate 
was promising them should come “ down the 
chimney some o’ these days, an’ whisk ’em all 
away to Fluridy, where the rheumatiz would be 
thawed out o’ the ’dieted body.” 

The one pleasure Joe had stumbled upon in 
his new life was Tom Tate’s little lame girl. He 
had spent many hours when work was over at 


SYLVIA 


175 


his uncle’s inn talking to Sylvia about the 
wonderful things he expected to make with his 
tools as soon as he had the leisure to “ work on 
’em.” And he had found her a ready listener 
and an earnest sympathizer. Once she had said 
with a little sigh : 

“ Now, if only I could divide up all this use- 
less time o’ mine with you.” 

From that moment he had been busy devising 
means whereby the time should no longer be 
“ useless,” or hang heavily upon the cripple. 
The crutch was the first step. That would help 
her to “ get about,” and truly feel that she was 
not helpless ; the first great step, indeed, on the 
road to independence. The night that he tacked 
on the padding, when everybody was asleep — for 
Sylvia’s crutch had been made nights when 
work was over — was a very happy one to Joe. 
But when he dropped in with it, and saw the 
glad light spring to the tired eyes he felt more 
than repaid for all his lost sleep and labor. 
Sylvia had lost her mother when a baby, but, 
like most of the mountain people, Tom had not 


176 


a moonshiner’s son 


been at any loss to find a convenient relative to 
come and keep house for him. Indeed, he had 
been most fortunate in this respect, for his sister 
was scarcely less devoted to Sylvia than Tom 
himself. 

She, too, saw the pleasure, the flush of hope 
that Joe’s present had called forth, and she fol- 
lowed the boy to the gate and tendered her 
thanks in her own way. 

“ It air the first time^I have seen her pleasured 
this many a day,” said she, “ an’ you ware 
mighty good to remember a little ’flicted gal 
that way.” 

“It pleasured me to make it for her,” said 
Joe ; “ it ware a real pleasure to me, Mis’ Tate.” 

“ You air a good boy,” said Miss Tate ; “ all 
the mountain says that word o’ you. They all 
say it air a shame the way you air used down 
yonder. They all gives you a fair word ; a 
mighty good name.” 

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Joe. “I’d rather 
have a good name as to have fair treatment.” 

And as he trudged home through the snow 


SYLVIA 


177 


he remembered Jube Jarvis’s parting advice and 
felt glad that his efforts to follow his first friend’s 
advice had not been wholly vain. He remem- 
bered Sylvia’s words concerning the trip to 
Florida ; he thought of them as he drew near 
the old Rock House, that was now his only home, 
and saw the old stage drawn up before the door, 
and Tom Tate helping two passengers to alight. 
He remembered the promised trip to Florida. 
Like Sylvia he had little faith in the coming of 
the great fortune ; yet afterward, when it did 
come, he remembered the promise with sorrow. 


12 


CHAPTEE IX 


THE BELATED OLD STAGE COACH 

At the Eock House, Bentley was fuming and 
fussing over the belated stage coach ; it was 
already several hours late and still no sign of it. 

“ The dinner’s plumb sp’iled long ago,” said 
he to his wife as he was returning from one of 
his repeated walks to the gate to see if the 
rumbling old vehicle might not “ be in sight.” 

“ Land alive man,” said she, “ what ails you, 
to take on so ? Seems like you ought to know 
that a stage belated in a snow-storm means a 
full bed for the Eock House.” 

“ An’ whar can we put so many, I’d like to 
know,” said Bentley; “ thar ain’t but three 
rooms in this house have got fireplaces fitten to 
light a blaze in ; an’ one o’ them has to be give 
to granny.” 

The woman glanced at Joe. 

178 


THE BELATED OLD STAGE COACH 179 

“ We-uns air pore,” said she, “ an’ trav’lers 
don’t come along ev’ry day. We’ll be obleeged 
to crowd up some. Joe’ll have to turn out for 
granny, an’ somebody can have her room to- 
night ; thar’s a good fireplace in thar.” 

Joe said nothing ; he had long ago learned the 
uselessness of trying to “ stand up for granny.” 
He stood silently in the doorway watching the 
snow drifting in great blinding sheets across the 
road, driven by the December wind under the 
long, low ledges of the mountain. He thought 
of the swaying old stage making that dangerous 
descent in the teeth of the storm. Tom Tate 
was a careful driver, and had doubtless waited 
somewhere along the road during the heavier 
flurries. The way was steep and slippery at all 
times ; but in winter, and since the railroad had 
reduced travel, it was far more so. 

Joe felt uneasy enough as hour after hour 
passed and still the stage did not come. Finally, 
when Bentley, growing too impatient to wait at 
home, went up the mountain to meet it, Joe 
slipped into granny’s little room, that had been 


180 


a moonshiner’s son 


a big pantry in the palmy days of the Rock 
House, before the railroad killed travel on the 
road, and drawing from under the bed, where 
he had hidden the little carefully-smoothed 
crutch he had finished the night before, watched 
for a chance when Mrs. Bentley was not on 
guard and slipped away through the woods to 
Tom’s cabin beyond the orchard. 

He heard the long, winding melody of the 
horn before he had made half the trip back, and 
fearing the anger of his uncle should he find him 
absent, he set out in a run for the house. 

When he reached it the stage had turned 
from the door, and Tom was driving the tired 
horses into the great spreading old barn, where 
they must assuredly have felt lonely enough 
but for the cows and chickens that had been 
given habitation there since the need for so much 
room had become a thing of the past. 

Joe stole around to the back way and came 
up just in time to take the valises that the two 
passengers had deposited at the door. He saw 
them, a very tall man and a very short one, go up 


THE BELATED OLD STAGE COACH 181 

to the dirt^ old register and leave their names 
there — Silas Thompson, attorney, Knoxville, 
and Emerson H. L. White, Knoxville. The 
small man was a great lumber dealer and manu- 
facturer, and Mr. Thompson was his lawyer. 
Joe deposited their valises as he had orders to 
do, one in the room generally occupied by 
granny, the other in what was called “ the sit- 
ting-room.’ J For much of the inn had been 
torn away of late years, and much of it 
was still too bare and exposed for winter 
habitation. 

When the boy returned to the sitting-room he 
saw the manufacturer stooping, and with chilled 
fingers trying to unfasten the refractory latch 
of an arctic overshoe. Instantly Joe dropped 
upon one knee, and giving a nimble twist and 
jerk soon had the shoe off ; in a twinkling the 
mate followed and the boy rose. 

“ Thank you, my boy,” said the gentleman. 
“ My fingers were so nearly frozen I couldn’t 
undo the latch. Now do you run your hand 
in the pocket of that overcoat of mine and get 


182 


A MOONSHINER S SON 


out that big orange. They don’t come into 
these parts every day, I am thinking.” 

“ No, sir,” said Joe, “ an’ thankee, sir. I’ll 
fetch it to granny.” 

“Wait, then,” said the lawyer, “and feel in 
my other pocket for the mate to it for yourself.” 

Again Joe expressed his thanks and ran off 
to granny. A moment more and he was on the 
way to the great barn where Tom was busy with 
his horses. He wished to catch the stage driver 
before he left, and send one of the oranges to 
Sylvia. Indeed, had he had *a dozen oranges 
he would in all probability have found some one 
to give them to. For unselfishness is born in 
the heart of a boy as conscience is born in his 
soul ; a gift straight from God that may be 
cultivated or destroyed, just as the possessor wills- 

J oe called lustily at the door of the barn, but 
there was no answer. This was odd, seeing the 
doors were wide open and the racks empty. 
Entering, Joe was still more surprised to find 
Tom was there, shaking the snow from his old 
brown beaver and making haste to be off. 


THE BELATED OLD STAGE COACH 183 

4 ‘ You had a hard drive, didn’t you Tom ?” 
said Joe, ignoring the man’s silence. 

“ Mighty hard,” was the reply in a sullen 
tone, so unlike the usually friendly Tom. “ I 
druv under a bluff and thar I had to wait a 
whole hour before it held up enough for me to 
make that thar last bend o’ the mount’ll. And 
all the time I knowed Silvy ware frettin’ and 
worritin’ at home.” 

“ Let me feed the horses, Tom,” said Joe, 
“ and you go on home. Put this in here — ” 

He ran his hand, with the orange in it, into 
Tom’s great gaping pocket, and the next moment 
almost cried out with astonishment as Tom’s big 
bridle hand sent him headlong across the barn 
floor. Had the man gone mad ! For a moment 
Joe thought so, and this fear served to curb his 
anger. 

“ I ware only puttin’ that orange in thar for 
Silvy,” said he. “ One o’ them new men give 
it to me, and I wanted Silvy to have it, that 
ware all.” 

Tom began to apologize with haste. “ I didn’t 


184 


a moonshiner's son 


mean to hurt you," said lie. “You know I 
wouldn’t ’a’ done that. I ware jest — I ware only 
— dad burn my hide, I don’t know what I ware 
doin’. ’Pears like this here drivin’ in snow- 
storms and worritin’ about my little gal have 
in and about took what little sense I ever did 
have. I ax your pardon, Joe. You-uns have 
always been mighty kind to my Silvy ; I ain’t 
furgot the night you rid five miles in the rain 
to fetch the yerb doctor whenst she was sick and 
I off on a trip. I wouldn’t hurt you — not for 
all Cum’lun Mount’ll.’’ 

“ I know that,” said Joe. “And I know how 
you feel. Now you go on home. I’ll feed the 
horses and lock the doors. And you tell Silvy 
I sent her the orange for her supper. Oh, Tom ! 
I fetched her the crutch this evenin’, and she 
ware that delighted it done me good to see her.” 

“ I’ll be bound she ware,” said Tom, with 
both a smile and a sigh. “ Poor little gal ; 
she air that sprightly and ambitious, and to be 
so hindered ! It air plumb distractin’. But it 
ain’t goin’ to be forever. Not by a long sight. 


THE BELATED OLD STAGE COACH 185 

Fm hopin’ to fetch her to Fluridy mighty soon 
now.” 

Was it fancy? Was the face, lifted for a 
moment to the uncertain light, changed ? 
Where was the honest brown face of Tom Tate, 
the mountain stage driver ? The face which 
only the day before had beamed from the box, 
earnest, eager, open to all the world, and honest 
in the good light of day ? 

Joe tried to shake off the feeling that had 
taken possession of him — the feeling that Tom 
had changed. 

“ Tell Silvy,” said he, “ that the orange come 
from Fluridy anyhows. I know just what she’ll 
say, Tom. She’ll say : ‘ That’s as near Fluridy 
as I’ll ever get.’ That’s what Silvy’ll say.” 

“An’ it’ll be a blamed big mistake,” snarled 
Tom, and again that odd, unnatural look came 
into the brown face. But before Joe could 
speak Tom was gone. He went dashing out the 
door with something that sounded very like an 
oath, but was too low for Joe to understand just 
what it was. 


186 


a moonshiner's son 


He forgot tlie incident, however, while seated 
by the sitting-room fire after supper listening 
to the strange gentlemen talking. One of them, 
Mr. White, was taking his attorney over into a 
great lumber district across the mountain to 
settle up the last year's contracts and to make 
new ones for the coming year. The great 
manufacturer told of the wonderful shops in 
Knoxville, of the numerous hands employed 
there, and of the curious things, in the way of 
furniture, that were every day turned out there. 
Joe listened with a delight that was not lost 
upon the stranger. Indeed, the rich man, de- 
voted as he was to his manufactures, was almost 
as sorry as Joe when, with a sigh, the boy gath- 
ered the travelers' boots and went off into the 
kitchen to black them. And then it was he 
remembered Tom's odd behavior. 

He was not himself, that was plain enough. 

“ Why didn't he answer when I called ?” said 
Joe to himself. “ Why, he hung his head like — 
like — " the word was whispered softly, “ like a 
thief." 


THE BELATED OLD STAGE COACH 187 

The house wag still when he carried the 
shoes to the gentlemen’s rooms. In the sitting- 
room, where Mr. White had been put to sleep, 
the fire still burned low in the black fireplace. 
It would be warm there all night ; in the rafter 
room, where he would lodge, Joe knew how the 
bleak winds would creep underneath the loose 
clapboards. A temptation assailed him ; why 
not lie down there before the fire and sleep? 
He would be up and out long enough before 
anybody else was awake. The men were going 
by private conveyance the rest of their journey, 
and so would not have to be up in time for the 
stage. Moreover, the stage itself would, like as 
not, be snowbound for several days. There 
would be no early rising at the Rock House ; it 
would be quite safe, he fancied, as he stretched 
himself out before the warm fire, and soon fell 
asleep. 

When the sound of his breathing told that he 
was sleeping, the manufacturer, over in the 
bed, lifted himself upon an elbow and glanced 
in sympathetic silence at the weary, overbur- 


188 


a moonshiner’s son 


dened sleeper. Then, slipping softly across the 
room, he took his own heavy greatcoat and laid 
it over the sleeping boy. In his youth he, too, had 
known what it was to wrestle with an adverse 
fate ; the recollection of his own struggles had 
made a very tender spot in his heart for strug- 
gling boyhood everywhere. 

With the first peep of the gray dawn over the 
mountain, Joe awoke. When he saw the hand- 
some coat lying there on the floor beside him 
liis heart seemed to give a great bound and then 
to stop beating. How came it there ? Had he 
been cold in the night and taken the coat in his 
sleep ? Surely he had never dared to touch it 
when awake and in his senses. He carefully 
brushed and replaced the garment where it had 
hung the night before, and, softly opening the 
door, slipped away to his morning duties. 

When he returned to the house there was 
great commotion in the sitting-room. Mr. White, 
was walking the floor in an excited, troubled 
way, while the attorney stood before the fire, 
his hands crossed behind him, a worried and 


THE BELATED OLD STAGE COACH 189 


uneasy expression upon his face. Bentley was 
swearing like a madman. Poor Joe heard his 
own name mixed and mingled rather freely 
with the oaths ; and granny, poor, feeble old 
granny, was standing in the doorway waiting 
for him, the tears rolling down her wrinkled 
cheeks, and looking as though her heart had 
broken. When Joe ajopeared she tottered for- 
ward and held out her hands helplessly, plead- 
ingly to him. 

“ Oh, Joey, son,” said she, “ come in here an’ 
tell ’em you didn’t steal the gentleman’s money. 
Tell ’em, son, you didn’t touch the coat.” And 
with a low, broken cry of despair granny fell 
forward, senseless, upon the floor. 


CHAPTER X 


UNDER THE DOORSTEP 

It was quite dark when Tom Tate reached 
his cabin, after leaving the care of the horses to 
Joe’s ever-willing hands. He walked slowly, 
and, although he had been in such haste to get 
away from the barn, he took a roundabout path 
home, and one that carried him more than a 
mile out of his way. His step, usually so 
quick and expectant, was slow and heavy, and 
he lingered outside the door, under cover of 
the sheltering darkness. 

Sylvia had been industriously practicing with 
her crutch ; already she was able to walk about 
the room with its assistance, and more than 
once the glad laugh of childhood, so seldom 
heard in the cabin of late, had brought an 
answering smile to the lips of Miss Tate, busily 
preparing supper in the shed-room. 

190 


UNDER THE DOORSTEP 


191 


“ By to-morrow/’ said Sylvia, “ I’ll be able 
to go over to the Bock House. By to-morrow. 
I’ll sure go over an’ see Joe, Aunt Jane, if 
the snow ain’t too deep for my old pardner 
here.” 

“ Why, honey,” said Miss Tate, “ you ain’t 
been out o’ the house for nigh on six months. 
It would in an’ about kill you to go out in the 
weather. You mustn’t think about it, Silvy; 
not before spring, no ways.” 

“ Well,” laughed Sylvia, “ I am thinkin’ 
right smart about it. More than I have thought 
in many a day, I reckon.” And she whisked 
off to the window to see if Tom might be coming 
home. 

He was very, very late. Later than she had 
ever known him ; another time she would 
have fretted and complained at the delay. But 
this evening she had been so occupied with 
Joe’s gift that she had forgotten how time was 
flying. 

Suddenly the ear, tuned by affliction to catch 
the faintest footfall, caught the sound of ap- 


192 


a moonshiner’s son 


proaching steps. She listened a moment, a 
puzzled expression in the blue eyes turned to 
the window. It was certainly her father’s step ; 
yet there was something different about it. 
Sylvia had not listened so intently for that step 
upon the gravel outside the door not to be 
familiar with the slightest change in it. 

“ Well !” said she, softly, as one speaks to one’s 
own heart, “what is the matter with father?” 

Pressing her face to the pane and shutting off 
with her hands the light from the fire, she saw a 
figure, indistinct and shadowy, stoop, lift the 
great rock that formed the cabin doorstep, and 
rise again. The next moment she heard a hand 
feeling cautiously in the darkness for the latch- 
string. 

Eager and expectant, full of the happiness of 
being once more able to go and meet him, Sylvia 
turned to the door, still leaning upon Joe’s gift, 
her face aglow, her heart full of joy. At the 
very first glimpse of his face she stopped, the 
little wooden prop slipped from her hand and 
rolled down upon the floor. 


UNDER THE DOORSTEP 


193 


“ Father,” said she, “ what has happened to 
you-uns ?” 

The face turned to hers was pale and anx- 
ious ; the eyes had a furtive, frightened look 
in them. At the sound of the child’s voice 
Tom rallied and tried to shake off the spell that 
held him. 

“ Why, honey,” said he, “ there ain’t any- 
thing the matter — ” At the same moment 
he glanced over his shoulder in a guilty, fright- 
ened way, as though an unseen danger were 
dogging his steps. 

The child stood staring a moment, then sud- 
denly burst into tears. Instantly Tom was 
himself again. He stooped and lifted the frail 
form in his arms. 

“ Why, honey,” said he, “ what ails you, to 
take on so? Ain’t you glad to see your pappy ? 
Or air you just mad some bekase he’s so late? 
Well, now, if you just could ’a’ seen them horses 
huggin’ that old bluff in the storm you’d feel 
like huggin’ the old driver some, sure, for 
pilotin’ of ’em safe down that thar mount’n. 
13 


194 


a moonshiner's son 


That you would. And what's all this that I 
see here ?" 

He dropped into a chair, the child upon his 
knee, and reached his hand for the little wooden 
crutch. Instantly Sylvia's tears ceased to flow; 
“ It's my crutch," she cried, joyfully. “Joe 
fetched it to me. Now, see me walk !" 

And walk she did, the slight arm carried 
over the crutch, the tip of the shortened foot 
just touching the floor, a smile wreathing the 
lips that had wellnigli forgotten how to smile. 
In the stage driver’s eyes the quick tears 
gathered ; “ now, if that ware not clever of Joe 
Bentley," said he. “ I’ll reckerlect that o' Joe. 
Git out thar an' let me see you do it again." 

And again the graceful little body tripped 
carefully across the old puncheon floor while 
Tom looked on, the smile under his shaggy 
beard a match to the smile beaming in the 
child's delighted eyes. 

“Fust rate," declared Tom, “fust rate. I'll 
do somethin' for Joe Bentley, sure's my name's 
Tom Tate ; see if I don't. Why, honey, with 


UNDER THE DOORSTEP 


195 


such skippin’ as that we’ll soon be runnin’ 
away to Fluridy.” 

“A- walkin’, you mean,” laughed Sylvia. “I 
reckon that’ll be the quickest way we-uns’ll ever 
git to Fluridy. But as for me, I’m content to 
walk here in Tennessee, if only so I can walk.” 

“ But we won’t walk ; we’ll ride in the steam 
cyars, big as anybody ; see if we don’t. I tell 
y-o-u— ” 

He glanced over his shoulder again in that 
startled, furtive way that was half fear, half 
surprise, and said no more. 

“ Did you hear somethin’ ?” said Sylvia. 

He answered her more sharply than he had 
ever spoken to her in all her life. 

“No, I ain’t heeard nothin’, an’ I can’t see 
as you-uns have got any call to be spyin’ on 
yer own pappy, an’ suspicionin’ of him, an’ 
takin’ of him up so sharp like, as though he’d 
gone an’ done somethin’ to be afeard on.” 

Aunt Jane put her head in at this moment to 
say the supper was ready and Tom strode off to 
the other room without so much as a look at 


196 


a moonshiner's son 


Sylvia, who stood staring after him for a 
moment through the tears that his unusual 
sharpness brought to her eyes. She followed 
him out to supper, but her appetite was gone. 
She was afraid to speak to him again. She 
had never seen him in such a mood ; something 
had happened, she felt sure of that. But she 
had a comfort in her crutch. She slipped off 
into her aunt's room and walked about there 
for an hour, while Tom sat moodily in the cor- 
ner, that furtive, frightened look upon his face, 
forgetting everything but the one thing which 
refused to be shaken off. Long after Sylvia 
was in bed, and, as he thought, asleep, he got 
up and went out, leaving the door ajar. In- 
stantly the little figure upon the lounge just 
under the window lifted itself in bed and 
peeped through the panes to see if he might be 
going away. Through the open door a broad 
blaze of light issued that fell athwart the door- 
step, and full in the centre of it ^he saw the fig- 
ure of her father, kneeling, peering under the 
old rock step. 


UNDER THE DOORSTEP 


197 


She pretended to be asleep when he returned, 
and soon she heard him snoring over in his bed. 
Bat before he went to bed she saw him pick up 
her crutch and examine it carefully, and heard 
him in a low voice again make a promise of 
rewarding Joe. 

When Sylvia awoke the next morning Tom 
was gone, but on the pillow beside her lay the 
big golden orange that Joe had sent and Tom 
had forgotten the night before. 

Joe’s gift; she had many tokens of the 
boy’s generous nature. Had she known what 
her friend was suffering at that moment she 
would indeed have had many tears to shed 
for him — poor, unfortunate, unhappy Joe. 
Sitting by his grandmother’s couch, a fright- 
ened look upon his face, and a strange, hor- 
rible fear at his heart, begging her not to 
believe it, not to believe he was a thief, could 
this be the helpful, honest fellow that only 
yesterday had whistled and sung in the win- 
ter woods? 

At the inn the excitement still prevailed. 


198 


a moonshiner’s son 


Mr. White refused to have the boy j^unished or 
any definite charge made against him until the 
house and barn and stage coach had been 
thoroughly searched. 

“ I’ll stripe him in a way that will last him 
till he dies,” said Bentley. “ Stealin’ from my 
guests ! I’ll show him. He’s Lige Bentley’s son, 
sir, and that’s enough. He’s got a bad name for 
an inheritance. Lige ware a born law-breaker.” 

“ Well, he must be proved guilty before he is 
punished,” said the manufacturer. “ He hasn’t 
the bearing of a rogue, and I shall give him a 
chance ; though the ‘ inheritance ’ is against him, 
I admit.” 

“ Inherits a bad name.” Joe heard the words 
and again his heart sank. He had no idea of 
that great and mighty machinery we call law ; 
nor how, in order to make guilt more sure, the 
first step is often to prove the bad character and 
the bad ancestry of one suspected. Every day 
he lived he learned more surely the value of a 
good name. He had inherited a bad one. He 
thought of old Jube Jarvis and his parting 


UNDER THE DOORSTEP 


199 


advice, and burying his face in his grand- 
mother’s lap Joe shed the first tears that had 
come to relieve his suspense. 

“ Nobody don’t believe me,” he. sobbed. 
“ Everybody thinks I took the money.” 

“ Thar’s one as knows better than to believe 
such,” said granny. “ I knows you didn’t, son, 
an’ don’t you be afeard. Innocence ain’t a-goin’ 
to suffer long. I’ll trust the good Lord for 
that.” 

Her faith was a comfort to him ; it sent him 
out to help in the search for the lost money. 

“ I ware plumb give over to grief,” he told 
himself as he crossed the yard. “ I forgot I had 
any friends; I forgot granny, an’ Tom, too; 
of course Tom will not believe ’em.” 

But a new disappointment awaited him at 
the barn. Tom had been there and gone home 
again, after hearing about the loss of the three 
hundred dollars. He had not even tried to 
speak a word of comfort, or of doubt as to his 
guilt. 

“ Just bolted off like ligktnin’ streck him,” 


200 


A MOONSHINEll’s SON 


one of the men who had congregated with 
the first hint of excitement told Joe. “ Lit 
out like he ware called to git up and go at 
once.” 

It was true ; Tom had been over ; he came 
late, though he had left home early. He had 
stepped into the barn and begun feeding the 
horses when Bentley came over from the 
house. The musty old barn was shadowy, 
even in daylight, and the light uncertain. 
Tom had stood with his back to the door when 
Bentley entered, but one hand was in the 
pocket of his greatcoat, tightly clasping the 
black stock of a pistol. 

“ Hello, thar !” Bentley had called in a voice 
that made the brown bridle hand fasten itself 
more closely about the weapon in Tom’s pocket. 

“Well,” said the stage driver, “ I’m here. 
No need o’ hurry, I reckon, with all this here 
snow on the ground.” 

“ Hurry !” exclaimed Bentley, angrily. 
“ Hurry be blasted ! Hain’t you-uns heard 
how that thar ungrateful neffew o’ mine’s gone 




UNDER THE DOORSTEP 


201 


an’ robbed a passenger out o’ three hundred 
dollars ?” 

There was no need to feign surprise now. 
Tom actually dropped against the fodder rack, 
gasping and frightened. 

“ Joe !” said he. “ Surely Joe ain’t any 
thief. Say, now, they don’t s’pect Joe Bentley, 
surely ?” 

“ But they do,” said Bentley, with an oath. 
“ The thievin’ little rascal. If that thar money 
ain’t forthcomin’ in an hour I’m goin’ to tee- 
totally take the hide off ’n him an’ then have 
him arrested.” 

Tom grew sick with horror, yet he made an 
effort, one faint effort, in Joe’s behalf. 

“ He didn’t do it, Mr. Bentley,” he declared. 
“ I know Joe didn’t steal nutliin’.” 

“ Then who in thunder did ?” demanded the 
innkeeper. 

“ I — I — why I — don’t know, Mr. Bentley, 
but — not Joe.” 

“ Shut up, then,” said Bentley. “ In course 
Joe done it. Ware not the money in the over- 


202 


a moonshiner’s son 


coat pocket, where the owner put it just before 
leavin’ the stage ? He took it out to divide it 
on the way down, an’ Mr. Thompson took half, 
bekase it ware too much to risk in a heap. An’ 
when the storm come on Mr. White crammed 
his package in his coat pocket for a min it when 
the stage ware swingin’ round a dang’rous 
curve, an’ he plumb forgot to change it. Last 
night he saw that tliar boy layin’ on the floor, 
whar he hadn’t no business to be, an’ he got up 
an’ flung the coat over him, like a born idiot, 
an’ this mornin’ boy an’ money ware both gone.” 

“ Gone !” cried Tom. “Air Joe gone ?” 

“ Don’t be a fool, Tom,” said Bentley. 
“ Whar’d he go, I’d like to know. He’s goin’ 
somewhars, though, an’ mighty fast, I can tell 
you, if that tliar money ain’t found foresliortly. 
I’ve come down here to overhaul the stage, 
bekase that tliar idiot up tliar won’t have it no 
other way but that thar’s some mistake.” 

Joe suspected ! The earth seemed turning 
upside down to Tom Tate. Scarcely knowing 
what he did he assisted in the search for the 


UNDER THE DOORSTEP 


203 


missing wallet. That done — he alone under- 
stood how useless the search would be — he struck 
off through the orchard toward home. When in 
sight of his cabin he suddenly whirled around 
and turned off into a by-path leading deep into 
the heart of the woods. He wanted time to think ; 
his- brain was on fire, his heart was as ice in his 
bosom. He had forgotten the snow and the 
cold; he remembered only that Joe was in 
distress ; in danger, indeed, for Tom knew old 
Bentley too well to suppose that he would spare 
the lad who, he supposed, had brought suspicion 
upon his house. Joe, who had done so much 
to lighten and brighten the little straitened 
life in the cabin among the cedars ! Tom thought 
of all this as he trudged off through the snow, 
away from himself and his accusing conscience. 
He recalled that midnight tramp for the doctor 
when Sylvia was sick ; the birds he had trapped 
with which to tempt her delicate appetite ; and 
the crutch upon which he had seen her hopping 
about like a little broken-winged bird that had 
forgotten everything but how to sing. And 


204 


a moonshiner’s son 


then Tom remembered the fearful, fateful 
package under the old stone doorstep. 

“ I didn’t think o’ this,” he groaned. “ I 
didn’t think of it failin’ upon Joe when I picked 
up that thar wallet lyin’ uj3on the floor of the 
stage wliar that rich man drapped it. I didn’t 
think o’ trouble to nobody ; I only thought o’ 
my little suff’rin’ one, an’ how the rich man 
would never miss it. An’ now, what can I do ? 
To fetch it back means the prison ; to keep it 
means everlasting torture.” 

Torture ! Aye, if an outraged conscience can 
torture, poor Tom must feel its heavy hand 
upon him. He lifted his face to the skies, cold, 
leaden, heavy with the snow clouds. 

“ Oh, Heaven !” he prayed, “ help me, help me, 
help me !” 

No cry in time of temptation ever yet failed 
to reach God’s ear, or to have His help. And 
to Tom help came straight and prompt and 
perfect. Instantly, the prayer still warm upon 
his lips, he turned sharply around and struck 
off briskly in the direction of his home. 


UNDER THE DOORSTEP 


205 


“ I’ll fetch it back an’ own up square,” said he, 
“ if it kills me.” 

He walked straight home ; straight to his own 
doorstep ; and, stooping, slipped his hand under 
the old rock step. The next moment his 
startled cry of alarm rang through the mountain 
like the cry of some creature in pain. 

The wallet was gone. 


CHAPTER XI 


CONFESSIONS 

Tom Tate had resolved to return home and 
get the wallet, which, upon the impulse, he had 
concealed and appropriated, and, returning it to 
the owner, confess his own part in the transac- 
tion. It was his first crime, and was done upon 
impulse with the needs of his afflicted daughter 
bearing upon his heart. He had not considered 
how his own sin might fall unjustly upon some 
innocent one ; nor yet how Sylvia would despise 
any help that might come to her other than in 
an honest way. For, child as she was, Sylvia 
was a bravely conscientious little soul. But 
finding the wallet gone, Tom found himself at a 
loss what to do. Confess ! That seemed to be the 
only thing left him, since it was the only thing 
that would clear Joe. He did not give himself 
time to consider, but, after the first shock of sur- 
206 


CONFESSIONS 


207 


prise was over, lie went into the house, half 
hoping some one might by accident have found 
the money. Though this he regarded as hardly 
possible, since the old step had never been re- 
moved until his own hand had made it a hiding: 
place for stolen property. The money had 
evidently been taken away by some one who had 
seen him place it there. For a moment his heart 
grew cold with fear. Then he found himself 
hoping the dreadful secret might be kept from 
Sylvia until he could confess it with his own lips. 

But Sylvia was not in the house. To his de- 
mand for her his sister answered with a stare : 
“ Why, I allowed she ware a-sittin’ same as 
common in the room thar.” 

A thorough search failed to find her ; she was 
gone ; for the first time in months she had left 
the house. 

“You didn’t meet her, I reckon,” said Miss 
Tate, “ as you come along ?” 

“ No, I come the long way ; around back, 
through the woods,” said Tom. “ Surely the 
child has not set out through this snow.” 


208 


a moonshiner’s son 


“ I dunno now,” said the sister. “ Jim Byers’s 
boy rid by here a bit ago goin’ to mill, and 
stepped in a minit to say Joe bad been tuk 
up forstealin’ from one o’ the stage coach pas- 
sengers last night. Silvy ware mightily upset 
by it ; cried consider’ble. Though we-uns 
knowed it ware not so. We knowed Joe Bent- 
ley air no thief.” 

Poor Joe ! The simple words would have 
brought comfort indeed to his bruised heart at 
that moment, as he sat alone, with the key 
turned upon him, in the little room that had 
been his grandmother’s. His uncle had locked 
him in. Neither Mr. White nor Mr. Thompson 
had asked that it be done, but the angry Bentley 
had determined to force a confession from the 
rebellious boy, Tom went back to the Bock 
House full of his own confession, and full of 
uneasiness as to Sylvia. 

“ She’ll take her death o’ cold,” he told him- 
self, as he trudged along through the snow. 
Then it occurred to him that she might only 
have gone to the house of a neighbor down the 


CONFESSIONS 


209 


road a piece, and he turned back to see if this 
should be so. 

“ Just proud o’ bein’ able to walk thar,” was 
his thought. 

Meanwhile, matters at the Rock House were 
growing serious enough. A constable had 
come in and the house had been thoroughly 
ransacked for the missing wallet. 

Mr. Thompson had determined to make a last 
effort to get Joe to confess that he had taken the 
money. He went into the room where the boy 
had been confined, and locking the door behind 
him, drew a chair over into the corner where 
Joe sat weeping. 

“ Now,” said he, “ Joe, my boy, this is a 
serious business. I have come to talk to you 
earnestly about it, and I wish you to talk to me, 
plainly, Joe and freely ; above all I wish you to 
talk to me truthfully.” 

Joe lifted his haggard face ; a sullen expres- 
sion had come into the eyes that had looked 
on life’s most sombre ways. 

“I ain’t got anything to say,” said he, “any 

14 


210 


a moonshiner’s son 


more than I’ve done said. You can believe 
it or no, I can’t help it.” 

“ Come — come now,” said the attorney, “ I 
am only trying to help you ; you must meet me 
half way. It is Mr. White’s money that is 
missing, not mine. Mr. White is a kind man ; 
he was once a very, very poor boy himself, and 
has a deep sympathy for boys situated as he 
was. His shops are full of them to-day. He 
doesn’t wish to have you punished ; indeed, I 
am sure it would j)ain him very much to be 
obliged to have to do so. He only wishes to 
recover his money. We are both willing, Joe, to 
consider your youth in this matter, and the hard 
life you have had. We are willing to believe 
that seeing a way out of your unhappy situation 
you were tempted beyond your strength.” 

Joe lifted his head at this, an angry gleam in 
his eyes. 

“No, sir,” said he, “I ware not. I never 
ware tempted to steal. Never !” 

In spite of himself Mr. Thompson found it 
impossible not to believe in the unfortunate, 


CONFESSIONS 


211 


hard-pressed boy ; still, the circumstances were 
so fearfully against him. 

“Well,” said he, “ I have just this to say : if 
you will go quietly and get the wallet and hand 
it to me, no more shall be said about it — not a 
word. If you refuse — why there’s money enough 
in that wallet to send you to the penitentiary, 
Joe.” 

“ I can’t help it,” said Joe. “ I never took 
nobody’s money. I never stole nothin’ in my 
life, as I knows on. If I have to go to prison 
for nothin,’ I can go. I reckon it can’t be much 
worser’n it have been here.” 

The attorney, a man accustomed to crime and 
to dealing with criminals, felt spring to his 
eyes something moist and warm, that slipped 
down his cheek and lay like a silver dew- 
drop upon his hand ; a bright, sympathetic tear. 
Yet Joe did not see it; and since the voice 
speaking to him lost nothing of its seriousness, 
he did not suspect that his forlorn and hopeless 
condition had awakened in the stern lawyer’s 
bosom a quick and tender sympathy. 


212 


A moonshiner’s son 


What he said to himself was : “ If it comes 
to the worst I shall defend this boy to the last 
moment, without a cent of pay or a hope of 
reward.” What he said to Joe was : 

“ Yes, Joe, it is a good deal worse than this 
place. The penitentiary is a place where few 
good men go in, and fewer come forth ; a place 
where boyhood perishes in its birth, and crime 
takes hold upon the throat*and kills the life of 
innocence ; a place where hope dies and virtue 
stagnates ; a place where vice sits upon a throne 
and deals out poison to the souls about her ; a 
hovel where crime and pestilence and guilt are 
bred; where virtue and peace and hope die upon 
the instant. Woe, woe to the boy so unfortunate 
as to find an entrance there. And besides all 
this, Joe, it is the death, the very death, of your 
good name.” 

“ Yes, sir,” said Joe, “ that’s what I ware 
thinkin’ of. - That air the hard part. I promised 
— Jube — Jarvis — to — keep — a — good — name.” 
And, breaking utterly down, poor Joe buried 
his face in his hands and sobbed aloud. 


CONFESSIONS 


213 


The attorney was perplexed; there was not 
a hint of guilt about this boy, yet who else 
could have touched the coat ? The owner did 
not pull it off until after supper, for the old 
Rock House was cold. Suddenly, with a 
lawyer’s keen instinct, he turned to Joe, and 
said : 

“ Have you any idea, Joe, as to who might 
have taken the money ?” 

Joe drew quickly back, an expression of 
alarm flitting across his face. 

“ I ain’t turned track-hound for nobody,” said 
he, with surly reluctance. “ I ain’t try in’ to run 
nobody down, I ain’t.” 

The attorney rose. 

“ Come with me, sir,” said he. Joe did not 
stir. “ Come with . me. I want witnesses to this 
talk.” Still J oe did not move. 

Mr. Thompson stepped to the door and beck- 
oned the constable. 

“ Bring that boy into the sitting-room,” said 
he, pointing to Joe. 

The constable stepped briskly across the room 


214 


a moonshiner's son 


and laid his hand roughly upon Joe's collar ; the 
boy struck at him angrily. 

“ Stop," said the attorney ; “ no violence there, 
if you please. You have no warrant yet ; he is 
still my prisoner, not yours. You'd best come 
quietly, Joe." 

Recognizing the folly of rebellion Joe followed 
the men into the sitting-room. His face wore a 
sullen, determined look ; he had resolved not to 
say one word. At the best he had only a sus- 
picion, and he was resolved not to say a word 
that could bring further trouble upon j)oor little 
Sylvia. 

Quite a crowd had congregated in the sitting- 
room, and Bentley was charging up and down 
the room declaring he was an honest man him- 
self and meant to clear his house of rogues even 
if it took away his own “ neffew." In the midst 
of his tirade the men entered with Joe. 

The attorney motioned him to silence. 

“ Gentlemen," said he, “ I have brought this 
boy in here because I wish to talk to him where 
all may hear and judge for themselves. I do 


CONFESSIONS 


215 


not believe him to be a thief by nature, but this 
money is gone and circumstances point to him 
as the guilty party. He denies the theft. Now, 
I ask him before this company if he has any 
suspicion as to who did take the wallet belong- 
ing to my client/* He stopped and looked at 
Joe. “We only wish,” he added, “ a clue to 
work upon.” 

But Joe stood sullen and silent, not so much 
as lifting his eyes. It certainly was a guilty face 
they saw before them now, with all the first 
defiance gone out of it. 

“You’d better answer, Joe,” said the lawyer. 
Still not a word from the accused boy. 

“ Did you take it yourself?” 

Still Joe said nothing ; he was afraid now to 
so much as protest his own innocence, lest the 
quick-witted lawyer should suddenly fix the 
guilt upon Tom. 

“ Very well, then,” said the attorney, “ I must 
conclude that you are the guilty party, and shall 
have to ask Mr. White to swear out the papers 
for your arrest.” 


216 


a moonshiner’s son 


From tlie doorway came a sharp cry of pain : 
“ He didn’t do it ! I tell you Joe Bentley didn’t 
steal your money ! He didn’t do it, I tell you !” 

All eyes were turned in the direction of the 
voice. There, framed in by the gray, weather- 
beaten, old door, stood Sylvia, leaning hard upon 
her crutch, her bright hair, tossed by the wind, 
almost concealing the pale face that looked 
upon them from such startled eyes. She sud- 
denly lifted her hand high above her head and 
tossed the familiar brown wallet into the midst 
of the group. 

“ Thar’s your old money !” she cried, “ an’ 
Joe Bentley never touched it ; never !” 

For a moment there was intense stillness; 
then a voice demanded sharply : 

“ If Joe Bentley didn’t take it, who did ?” 

It was the very question she had dreaded, and 
for which she had tried to prepare herself. The 
thin lips twitched spasmodically ; the little 
crutch rolled to the floor and Sylvia staggered 
forward blindly, with a low “ I done it ; I stole 
the wallet.” 


CONFESSIONS 217 

It was the voice of the manufacturer that 
called out to those near the door : 

“ Catch that child, somebody !” and a pair 
of burly arms were opened to receive her as 
Sylvia fell forward. 

They knew at once that she had not committed 
the crime ; but before they could express them- 
selves another figure had darkened the old 
doorway. The figure of a man, who strode for- 
ward and lifted the crippled girl in his arms, 
tenderly stroking the white temples. When 
the blue eyes looked into his, with their familiar 
recognition, he turned to the attorney : 

“ I be the man you air after,’’ said he. “ I 
took the wallet. I didn’t mean to take it, an’ 
it’s the first thing I ever did take. I ware 
tempted o’ Satan. When I see it a-layin’ thar 
on the floor o’ the coach, shaking in my very 
face all the liunderds and hunderds o’ things I 
could git for my ’flicted chil’, I couldn’t help 
a-takin’ it ; I couldn’t help it. I never meant 
to take it ; an’ I never meant to hurt nobody 
else by it. An’ this mornin’ when I heeard that 


218 


a moonshiner’s son 


Joe was under s’picion I went home to fetch it 
back an’ s’render both it and myse’f. An’ 
when I looked for it under the old doorstep 
wliar I had hid it, it ware gone. Then I 
said I’d come an’ clear Joe anyhow. An’, 
strangers, I have come.” 

There was silence in the room, save for a sob 
from the corner where Joe had turned away to 
weep. Granny had hobbled in, in time to hear 
Tom’s confession. Her old face wore its familiar 
smile of perfect faith as she went over and laid 
her hand on Joe’s bowed head. 

“Your granny trested you, son,” she said, in 
a voice meant only for Joe’s ears. “Allers 
reckerlect that no matter what comes to you, your 
old granny air a-trestin’ o’ you. A boy liain’t 
got any right to disapp’int them that trests in 
him.” 

“ The little gal didn’t tetch the money, 
strangers,” Tom was saying, “ exceptin’ to fetch 
it back to you-uns. She ware only try in’ to 
shield me, an’ to cl’ar Joe. I took it; only me. 
I ain’t askin’ for pardon, gentlemen ; I only ask 


CONFESSIONS 


219 


you to look at — that. That’s what tempted of 
me.” 

He thrust forward his big bridle hand, and 
in the palm of it lay Sylvia’s little twisted foot. 

There were tears in more eyes than Joe’s as 
the little foot came to view ; the great lawyer 
blew his nose with unnatural vigor ; and Mr. 
White, in the sharp voice with which he had 
bidden some one catch the child when she fainted, 
a voice meant to hide his emotion, lifted his 
walking cane, and pointing to the door called out 
to Tom : 

“ Take that child home and care for her.” 

Care for her ! That meant he was not to 
be prosecuted. No more was said about the 
wallet. Humanity is humanity after all, and 
full of the beautiful spirit of Christ. Tom’s 
lesson had been quite enough for him, and would 
do its own work without further molestation. 
But the stage that carried the attorney and his 
client back to Knoxville the next week also 
carried Joe. The manufacturer had obtained 
permission of granny to take him away, and 


220 


A MOONSHINER S SON 


put him into those wonderful shops that he had 
already learned to love. 

“ I’ll come back for you, granny/’ said he 
at parting. “ I’ll come back for you some day 
when I git to be a man, see if I don’t.” 

She knew better ; she knew that long before 
Joe could have accomplished his ambitions she 
would be sleeping under the quiet shadows of 
the mountain. A hasty visit now and then was 
the most she could hope for. But she smiled, 
happy even in the long parting, because it meant 
so much of good to Joe. So she smiled and 
sent him off with her blessing and her love, that 
would follow him always, to the very end. 

She knew that this man who had been touched 
with a feeling of sympathy for the boy treading' 
the hard road that he, too, had traveled, would 
not forget, or forbear, to point out the dangerous 
places along the way. And knowing Joe’s 
sturdy and honorable nature she felt that she 
could trust him, young as he was, to go into the 
world of men. 

Sylvia had come over to the Rock House 


CONFESSIONS 


221 


to say good-bye ; she stood leaning upon her 
crutch in the doorway, waving her hand in 
a last farewell. It was well for Joe that he 
could not see the tears that stood in Sylvia’s 
eyes as she shouted to him in the old familiar 
way: 

“ Good-bye, Joe ; don’t forgit the mount’n !” 

And Joe, seated beside his new friend in the 
lumbering old stage coach, made to himself a 
promise that he never, never would. 


CHAPTER XII 


AMONG NEW SCENES 

It was with mingled feelings of pleasure and 
of pain that Joe took his seat in Tom’s old stage. 
Pleasure, in that the life he had so ardently 
desired was at last opening before him ; the old 
hardships were done with ; injustice, that had 
rankled in the boy’s heart at times, would dis- 
turb him no more. Yet he was not without his 
fears as well as regrets. He might not, after all, 
be fitted for the life before him ; his doubts now 
were all of himself, his own worth and modest 
capacity. And then, the places that had been 
the scene of his struggles and of his misfortunes 
had become dear. The grim old mountain that 
had looked upon every hour of his life possessed 
a sort of protection after all ; its shades had re- 
ceived many of his boyish confidences, and his 
tears had fallen, bitter drops, upon its silent ways. 

222 


AMONG NEW SCENES 


223 


It was like parting from his mother to say good- 
bye to the mountain. Every crack of Tom’s whip 
seemed to be sweeping him miles and miles away 
from it. 

As they neared the bend in the steep where 
little Sylvia was at that moment watching to see 
the stage pass, the tears started to his eyes, and 
turning his head Joe stealthily drew his rough 
sleeve across his face. Tom cracked his whip, 
the stage swept around the curve, and his moun- 
tain home lay behind him, passed out of his 
life forever, save for such influences and impres- 
sions as it had left upon his character. But 
hardship; if well directed, is a wonderful teacher; 
a mighty strengthener of mind and of muscle, 
and Joe had not failed of its benefits. 

The parting with Tate was perhaps the hard- 
est of all to Joe. Not that he loved Tom best, 
but that he seemed a part of the old life, and so 
long as he sat there on his box cracking his 
whip and shouting to his horses, the old life 
seemed, to some extent, to be going along with 
him. But after a few hours’ travel this poor 


224 


a moonshiner’s son 


link had to be broken, too. The stage was a 
trifle late ; it reached the station at the foot of 
the mountain only a short time before the train 
was bulletined to start. It was all ready to 
go; the engine was puffing and blowing, the 
bell ringing, and the conductor shouting “ All 
aboard !” 

Mr. White felt rather glad there was so little 
time for leave-taking ; he had been watching 
Joe carefully during the ride down the moun- 
tain, and he understood the terrible battle the 
boy was having with his first homesickness. It 
would make it somewhat easier, therefore, not 
to linger over Tom’s farewell. 

So he hurried Joe into the car and found 
seats for his party while his attorney attended 
to the tickets and secured a check for Joe’s box. 
And Joe passed through it all like one in a 
dream ; the changes came so often and so 
quickly that he had no time to regret one event 
until he was pushed on into another. 

He did, however, regret Tom ; why, he had 
not so much as shaken hands with Tom ; and 



“HERE’S YOUR OLD MONEY!’’ SHE CRIED 
(Page 217) 





AMONG NEW SCENES 


225 


the old stage driver had done him many a good 
turn, despite the late unhappy incident of the 
stolen pocket-book. Moreover, he had a mes- 
sage to send to granny by Tom. Granny would 
think he had forgotten her already ; that his 
good fortune had turned his head at the very 
outset. Now, if he just could send that mes- 
sage back to the mountain ! 

Back to the mountain ! He had left it then, 
indeed, since it was “ back ” to the mountain. 
At the thought something seemed to gather in 
his throat and choke him. 

At that moment some one tapped upon the 
window, and, turning hastily, he saw Tom’s 
brown face pressed against the glass. Tom’s 
mouth was working, too, and his breath was 
marring the window glass; but Joe couldn’t 
hear a word. The engine was letting off steam, 
and the glass effectually deadened the sound 
of his voice. Mr. White leaned forward and 
lifted the window, and in an instant Joe almost 
shot out of it into Tom’s face. 

“ Good-bye, Tom,” said he ; “ good-bye. An’ I 

15 


a moonshiner's son 


m 


want you to promise to take care of granny, 
Tom, in my stead ; will you ?” 

This was the promise he had been eagerly 
waiting to extract from Tate, and which he had 
been so near missing. 

“That I will,” said Tom. “I gives you my 
word for it, I’ll write you fair and square all that 
happens to her whilst you-uns air gone. I slia’n’t 
forgit you, an’ I slia’n’t forgit that thar crutch.” 

There were tears in Tom’s eyes, but Joe did 
not see them. 

“ Never mind the crutch,” said he. “ May be 
I’ll learn to do better things than that bimeby. 
I’ve got a chance to learn — ” 

But Tom shook his head. “You may do 
bigger things,” said he, “but your hands’ll 
never turn a better job than that thar little 
wooden crutch ; because it ware the work o’ love 
an’ pity. I’ll allers remember you by that thar 
crutch, Joe Bentley, an’ so will Silvy.” 

The people were rushing into their places ; 
evidently the train would be moving in a mo- 
ment. Joe leaned farther out the window. 


AMONG NEW SCENES 


227 


“ Tom,” said lie, “ if I ever do make any 
money I’m goin’ to send Silvy to Fluridy. You 
tell her so for me.” 

“ All right,” said Tom, laughing ; “ and she’ll 
say, ‘ this crutch air as nigh Fluridy as I’ll ever 
git.’ ” 

But for once Tom was mistaken ; evidently 
Sylvia was a better judge of human nature than 
Tom ; for when he delivered Joe’s message that 
night Sylvia did not so much as smile; she 
merely gathered her little prop under her arm 
and said : 

“ Well, he will if he can; that’s all.” 

But Tom, making his good-byes at the car 
window, was not sorry to have a word to carry 
back to the little girl whose restricted life would 
indeed be lonely enough without the boy whose 
good heart had devised so many plans for her 
amusement. 

“ I’ll tell her,” he promised. “ I’ll tell her 
faithful, and I’ll write you what she says.” 

The train began to move. Tom’s brown 
bridle-hand was slipping from the window-sill 


228 


a moonshiner’s son 


where his brown fingers held Joe’s in a parting 
clasp. 

“When you see Mr. Jarvis — tell — him — ” 
the message was lost in the rolling of the 
wheels. But at the last moment Joe’s head 
shot out the window again, and his fresh young 
voice rang out above the confusion and bustle 
of starting : . 

“ Tell granny I’ve been well all this time.” 

Mr. White smiled. How long the hours must 
have been to the boy leaving, for the first time, 
his first and only home. The manufacturer 
glanced at his watch. They had left the Rock 
House at five o’clock, it was now eleven ; to Joe 
it had been “ all this time.” 

“ Well, Joe,” said he, “ we must begin to think 
about getting home now.” 

The words sent Joe’s thoughts off in a new 
line, and soon he began to look forward, instead 
of backward, and to enjoy the strange new 
country through which they were passing. The 
long, low levels were a beautiful wonder to him, 
and the rivers seemed sluggish and half asleep 


AMONG NEW SCENES 


229 


after tlie swift, swirling rush of the mountain 
streams. And the railroad train ; he had seen 
it at a distance once before. But this was the 
first time he had ever been in one of the hand- 
some coaches with their trimmings of brass and 
beveled mirrors reproducing with kaleidoscopic 
fascination the scenes through which the brave 
old engine was dragging them. 

Mr. White let him alone ; he understood that 
the boy was occupied with the strangeness of his 
surroundings, and that these were quite enough 
to fill his thoughts for the moment. But as the 
evening drew on and objects outside became less 
distinct, he saw the little old-young face pressed 
against the window-pane begin to take on its 
former expression of gloom. For an hour he 
sat thus, struggling with his own longings and 
memories. After a while the porter came in and 
lighted the lamps, but Joe paid no attention to it. 

The travelers had made their last change of 
cars and were entering now upon the coal 
regions not far from the city of Knoxville. 
Mr. White had been talking with his lawyer 


230 


A MOONSHINERS SON 


most of the time, but he never once lost interest 
in Joe’s battle with himself. 

Suddenly he saw the boy’s face brighten ; he 
half rose in his seat and uttered an exclamation 
of wonder and delight. 

“Well, Joe,” said the manufacturer, “ what 
do you think of it all ?” 

They were passing alongside a row of ovens, 
and the glow from the burning coke streamed 
across the earth and the sky, lighting up the 
dark blue of the heavens with real splendor. 

“ Oh, sir,” said Joe, “ if granny could only 
see that. It air surely the glory of God !” 

“ Manifested through His works,” said Mr. 
White. “ But wait until you see the big fur- 
naces, Joe, where they melt the iron and make 
it into bars ; then you will realize something of 
the goodness of God in storing the earth with 
so much for man’s use. We shall be at home 
now in a few hours.” 

At home ! It sounded so good. Joe leaned 
his head against the back of the seat and pic- 
tured to himself the night closing in upon the 


AMONG NEW SCENES 


231 


mountain. Already the lamps were lighted, or 
the pine knots; granny was knitting in the 
corner of the fireplace ; crickets were chirping 
under the old rock hearth. Joe was fast asleep. 

Mr. White, sitting opposite, studied the face 
before him carefully. It was a dark face, a good 
deal sunburned, too, and thin now, almost to 
gauntness. But that defect would soon right 
itself. Those little drooping lines about the 
mouth might disappear, too, in time, as the old 
life gradually weakened in his memory. The 
lips were set in a way that indicated strength, 
endurance and unyielding purpose. The eyes, he 
knew, were truth’s own. His impulses were 
slow, cautious, but once decided, nothing could 
change him. But that which troubled his bene- 
factor was a certain mistaken goodness that 
would allow the world to trample upon him — 
impose upon his generous nature. 

“ That must be corrected,” the manufacturer 
told himself. “Master Jes will be the very 
first one to take advantage of that weakness, 
unless I keep a sharp lookout.” 


232 


a moonshiner’s son 


Then, after a moment of silent thought, dur- 
ing which he again made a careful scrutiny of 
the face lying against the velvet seat : “ What 

a splendid foil for each other, Joe and Jes. 
Joe’s caution, set off against the impulsive dar- 
ing of Jes; the uncompromising conscientious- 
ness of one against the inclination to shirk in 
the other ; this boy’s quiet yielding against Jes’s 
sturdy aggressiveness ; Joe’s doubts against 
Jes’s unswerving faith in himself. They are 
a good pair ; my boy’s quickness will stimu- 
late the lagging spirit of the mountain boy, too. 
I shall watch the development of their charac- 
ters with peculiar interest.” 

Mr. Thompson, who had been in the smoker, 
entered at this moment, and, touching the man- 
ufacturer lightly upon the shoulder, said : 

“ Getting into Knoxville, sir.” 

“ Into Knoxville ? Why, where lias the time 
gone ?” 

The attorney looked at his watch. 

“ We are due at seven forty ; it lacks but ten 
minutes of it. Shall I call Joe up ?” 


AMONG NEW SCENES 


233 


Not more than half awake, Joe was swept 
along by the crowd upon the platform ; it was 
all a part of the dream he had been dreaming 
when Mr. Thompson awakened him ; the lights, 
the shrieking of locomotives, the jangling of 
street-car bells, and the cries of cabmen calling 
for passengers. But distinct enough he heard 
the low, deep voice of the attorney saying : 

“ There is your carriage, Mr. White, and Mor- 
rison is coming for your satchel/’ 

A tall driver stepped forward, relieving the 
master of his valise, and leading the way to 
where the carriage waited. 

He had not noticed the strong, rather awk- 
ward-looking mountain boy following at his 
master’s side, until, reaching the carriage, Mr. 
White stepped back and said : 

“ Come, Joe; jump in.” 

Joe dropped back among the soft cushions, 
too ignorant and too innocent, as yet, to find 
anything to contrast between himself and his 
new surroundings. Mr. White spoke to his 
attorney : 


234 


a moonshiner’s son 


“ Get in with us, Thompson ?” 

“ No, there is my car. I’ll catch it and go 
straight home. My wife will feel anxious. 
Good-night ; see you to-morrow.” 

Mr. White took the seat by Joe, and gave the 
driver his orders. 

“Home, Morrison, as fast as you can get 
there. I am as hungry as a bear, and as 
sleepy.” 

Sleepy he might be, but Joe was wide enough 
awake at last, and keenly alive to his new situ- 
ation. The street lamps were like lost stars, 
flitting through the night ; aimless, but for 
their one duty of shining. The towering 
buildings on either side the streets seemed all 
to be on fire. Mr. White explained nothing ; 
he was not much of a talker at any time, and he 
had some curiosity to see how the great change 
would appeal to Joe. Then, too, he was think- 
ing, as this boy at his side always set him 
thinking, of a night in a far-away December 
when another boy had drifted into Knoxville, a 
stranger and unused to the city’s strangeness. 


AMONG NEW SCENES 


235 


The difference between the two was slight, 
though the circumstances were different. The 
other boy had come alone ; strayed in from out- 
side the city, where he had either wandered 
from, or been deserted by, a wandering band of 
gypsies. Previous to his life among the gypsies 
the boy had a dim recollection of a tent, a ring, 
and tiers of laughing, shouting people. Then 
the gypsies came along ; how, he never knew, 
but he afterward learned to believe that the 
dull and timid boy was a burden to the circus 
company and to his mother. 

He glanced at the face at his side, radiant and 
wondering, open and honest, too, as the good 
daylight ; and he told himself that the boy Joe 
had at least one good branch in his pedigree. 

“ That counts for much,” he whispered in his 
own heart. “ If I had had a good mother — ” 
There flitted before his mind the vision of a 
light, lithe creature leaping through space and 
alighting, amid the yells of a coarse multitude, 
upon the back of a flying steed. 

He closed his eyes to shut out the picture, if 


236 


a moonshiner’s son 


might be, and fell to thinking of that far-away 
December night when he had strayed into 
Knoxville, and had chanced to knock at the 
right door. Chanced? No, he did not believe 
that such chances could be. He had lived to 
tell himself that it was God’s own hand had led 
him that night to the door of the good woman 
who had taken him into her home and her 
heart, and had made indeed a son of him. 

The carriage drew up to a tall, dark house, 
witli shutters carefully drawn, and stopped. 
But when the coachman ran lightly up the 
steps and rang the bell, the oj>ening of the door 
let out such a sudden dash of warm, rich light 
that for a moment Joe was quite blinded by the 
brightness. 

A moment later the blistered and bruised 
feet, so often torn with the stones upon the 
mountain’s side, sunk gratefully and restfully 
into the softly-padded carpet of his new home. 
He stood alone for a moment in the great hall- 
way with only Mr. White, who was removing 
his overcoat. Joe tried to express something 


AMONG NEW SCENES 237 

of the gratitude lie felt, but lie did not find 
speech so easy to-night. 

“ I know sir,” said he, “ that I’d ought to 
thank you for all you’ve done, but you see I 
never see anything like all this in my life ; an’ 
somehows it appears like I can’t think o’ no 
words to say.” 

“Well, Joe,” said Mr. White, “the way to 
show your gratitude is to endeavor to be happy 
in my house, and to improve the opportunities 
that have come to you.” 

There was a rush of footsteps coming down 
the stairs, and a voice in remonstrance, mingled 
with the high, distinct tones of a boy’s voice in 
angry defiance. The next moment a boy’s figure 
came bounding down the steps ; a straight, 
slight little figure, and graceful as a deer, clad 
in a suit of soft, clinging black, with a bright 
scarlet tie at the throat, and about the delicate 
temples golden locks, that clung to the pretty 
round head with girlish grace. 

The figure came down the broad steps two at 
a time, but with the last bound landed lightly 


238 


A MOONSHINERS SON 


and defiantly face to face with the master of the 
house and his new protege. 

Behind him, coming decidedly more slowly, 
was a tall, slender lady with white hair, and 
wearing an expression of deep annoyance. A 
flush overspread the lady’s face when she found 
herself so suddenly ushered into the presence of 
the master of the house, and she opened her lips 
to speak ; but the young athlete was before her. 
He lifted his eyes — such pleading, roguish eyes 
they were, yet withal not without a trace of 
melancholy, too, to the master’s face. 

“ May I not stay, sir ? May I not sit up 
a while with you and the new boy ? Morrison 
said at noon that a telegram had come ordering a 
room for a new boy. I haven’t seen a boy in this 
house since I have been in it, and I just couldn’t 
go to bed. I have told Mrs. Mallory I am not a 
baby to be tucked into a crib at eight o’clock.” 

“ Indeed, sir,” the lady interposed, “ I am 
ashamed to be the cause of such a stormy wel- 
come, but he is not well. Just feel his hands, 
sir, and see how fevered he is.” 


AMONG NEW SCENES 


239 


But the boy clasped his hands behind him 
angrily. 

“ Indeed I am not sick,” he replied. “ I 
won’t be sick.” 

And that one expression, “ I won’t be sick,” 
was the key to Jes’s character. 

“ Come ! come !” said the master, “ alter your 
tone, my little man, then I am ready to talk to 
you. Mrs. Mallory,” turning his back upon 
Jes and addressing the housekeeper, “ this is the 
young gentleman for whom I telegraphed you 
to have a room in readiness. I found him in 
the mountains. Bentley is his name, and he 
will henceforth be one of the family. Joe, 
come here and shake hands with my house- 
keeper.” 

The lady took the extended hand, holding it 
a moment between her own, and saying some 
gentle word of welcome. Joe never knew what 
it was she said, or what he said in reply. His 
eyes, as well as his thoughts, were given entirely 
to the boy, Jes, the handsome young fellow who, 
now quiet enough, was regarding him with a 


240 


a moonshiner’s son 


sort of stare that held both surprise and 
pleasure. 

Then, for the first time in his life, Joe felt 
conscious of his own awkward limbs and his 
rough, outgrown clothes. For the first time in 
his life he understood what a beautiful specimen 
of freshness and of grace a boy could be. And 
good breeding, too ; for despite his stormy intro- 
duction, Jes did not show the slightest amuse- 
ment, or, what might have hurt more, pity for 
the odd, old-fashioned figure which Joe at once 
realized he must have presented in his short 
pantaloons, showing several inches of coarse yarn 
stocking, and the sleeves reaching half way to 
his elbow. But if Jes saw the coarse shoes, the 
rumpled, unbleached, unstarched shirt, or the 
patched elbows of Joe’s jeans jacket, he gave no 
sign. Jes, in truth, saw a boy — that was all ; to 
Jes it w T as quite enough. 

He waited for his uncle to offer some sort of 
introduction, or to say more, at any rate; but 
when he saw him going off to the library with- 
out another word, he could stand the uncer- 


AMONG NEW SCENES 241 

tainty no longer, and burst out in bis impulsive 
way : 

“ Is lie going to stay ? Oh, uncle, I do hope 
he is going to stay.” Then, as the master said 
nothing : “ Say, are you going to live with 

us, boy ? Have you truly come to stay ?” 

Joe looked helplessly at Mr. White, but that 
gentleman was talking to the housekeeper, and 
Joe was left to speak for himself* 

“ Yes,” said he, in his most pronounced moun- 
tain drawl, “ I reckin so.” 

“ Then don’t say ‘ reckin/ ” said J es, prompt- 
ly ; “ say ‘ suppose/ Oh, we will have a great 
time now, uncle !” 

Mr. White smiled ; his nephew’s delight in 
the new member of the household jDleased him, 
as did Jes’s manner of ignoring the new boy’s 
appearance. Had he really not observed, he 
wondered, or was he simply too kind to appear 
to notice? There were some good qualities 
about Jes; some very good traits indeed. To 
his predictions of a “ good time ” the master 
replied : 

16 


242 


a moonshiner’s son 


“ Well, we will see about that. All depends 
upon how you treat each other. Now, Mrs. 
Mallory, some supper, and when we have eaten 
I am going to send these young gentlemen off 
to the library to get acquainted with each other. 
Wouldn’t you like that, Joe?” 

“ I reck — suppose so, sir,” said Joe. The 
master of the house again smiled ; he had 
noticed Jes’s correction of the new boy’s speech, 
and he chuckled as he went off to his room 
before going in to supper, and told himself that 
“ Jes would root out that dialect in less than a 
month.” 

After supper he sat in his own little study, 
seeing through the open door leading into the 
library the two boys, seated side by side before 
the fire, “ getting acquainted ” after their own 
boyish ideas. What a contrast they presented ; 
the brown, sturdy mountain fellow, more than 
two years younger than the white, delicate 
boy of the city. Their very clothes indi- 
cated the contrast of their characters.; the 
gray jeans and the soft black cloth. But Mr. 


AMONG NEW SCENES 


243 


White’s eye saw deeper than the clothes when 
he whispered to himself : 

“ The mountain boy has had the better 
chance. But Jes has his fine traits, too ; his 
nature would not have brooked the schooling 
that Joe has had, but he will imbibe much of 
the mountaineer’s strength. And he will bring 
that country boy out like a piece of polished 
silver — unless the boy permits him to lord it 
over him, and so forfeits Jes’s respect.” 

The housekeeper tapped lightly at the door 
opening off the hall, and to Mr. White’s “ Come 
in,” she entered and asked if Jes had not best 
be sent to his room. 

“ He has been feverish for two days,” she ex- 
plained. “And yesterday he was in bed the 
most of the day.” 

“ No,” was the reply, “ let him alone. Per- 
haps his own determination not to be sick is the 
best medicine after all. Sit down, Mrs. Mal- 
lory ; I want to talk to you a moment about 
this new boy who has come among us. I wish 
to tell you the whole sad story of his life, so that 


244 


a moonshiner’s son 


you will feel and show for him the same kind 
affection and care that you have given my 
nephew. But first, I wish to ask you to look 
after some more suitable clothes for him. I 
should like a suit for him to put on in the morn- 
ing, and another, which can be procured later, 
for better wear. I am going to take him into the 
shops at once — next week. Next year he must 
go to school ; this year I shall leave him to Jes, 
however. Jes will teach him more than he will 
get at any school just now. Moreover, it would 
do him more harm than good to be dropped 
down into a city school at his age, not knowing 
how to read and write ; indeed, not knowing how 
to talk, you might say. He has been unfortunate, 
j^articularly unfortunate, Mrs. Mallory. And 
finding him situated as he was, with the true 
nobility of character that he possesses, I felt it 
my duty, no less than a desire, being a bachelor 
with plenty, to rescue and place in a position 
where it could pass something of its greatness 
on to others this fine, promising character.” 

Then and there he told Mrs. Mallory Joe’s 


AMONG NEW SCENES 


245 


story. When he had finished the good woman 
was drying her tears. 

“ Poor boy,” said she ; “ poor boy. I hope 
we shall not find him either too sensitive or too 
dull, sir. Boys brought up like that are apt to 
be one or the other. There, sir ! Are they quar- 
reling already ?” 

Through the open door came the sound of 
a voice — Jes’s voice, shrill and indignant. 

“ Well !” said he, “ I should think you cer- 
tainly would be ashamed of yourself ; that I 
should.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


FIRST LESSONS 

The acquaintance in the library was pro- 
gressing. After the supper, which to J oe had 
been only a part of the glitter and confusion of 
the last two days, Mr. White had led his charge 
to the library, where Jes was awaiting them 
curled up among the silken pillows on the sofa. 
He rose promptly when they appeared, and said : 

“ Uncle, I think I must have been very rude 
to Mrs. Mallory to-night, and I am going at 
once and apologize. I have been thinking about 
it all this time, and now I know I was wrong.” 

Mr. White laid his hand upon Jes’s little 
round head, stroking the short curls tenderly. 

“ Oh, Jesse ! Jesse !” said he, “ if you only 
would learn to do your thinking first; your sober 
second thought is always so true ; you’ve got to 
look out for those ugly impulses, my boy. Go 
246 


FIKST LESSONS 


247 


on now, and set yourself right ; then come back, 
I wish you to show Joe over the house. His 
room opens off your own ; show him that. Then 
when you are through you may sit a while here 
together, if you like.” 

If they “ liked.” The master smiled as he 
saw them run off together, so unlike in every 
particular save the bounding, boyish heart in 
the bosom of each. He was glad, indeed he felt 
rewarded already, that he had brought them 
together ; then, as he turned away to his study 
he thought again of that night when he first 
strayed into Knoxville. There was nobody there 
to take off the newness of that night hut a lady, 
a good, good woman, and a frail little girl, who 
had, years afterward, developed a wonderful 
voice, and who had become Jes’s mother. They 
had called each other “ brother ” and “ sister,” 
and had loved each other as such. And when 
she died she gave him her boy to father. The 
boy was “ the mother’s own self again,” he had 
told himself many times. 

At that moment the boy was enjoying him- 


248 


a moonshiner’s son 


self not a little in piloting Joe over tlie big house. 
The rooms were so large and so beautiful; Joe 
would have lingered in each, but that Jes hur- 
ried him along until they stood in Joe’s own 
special apartment. And all the time the 
mountain boy was admiring the beautiful things 
about him he was thinking of granny, fast asleep 
by this time, in the leaky old Rock House far 
away up on the mountain. Everything was so 
strange ; there wasn’t a thing in all his surround- 
ings that touched in any way his life among the 
hills. Only his rough jacket and short old trou- 
sers seemed natural. He glanced at his frayed 
sleeve and unconsciously patted the patch granny 
had set there preparatory to his going away. And 
right there he resolved that he would keep that 
little old patched jacket as long as he lived, so 
much of granny’s love and patience seemed to 
have been stitched into it. And he resolved 
that should he ever make any money of his 
own that she should know what it was to have 
nice, comfortable things, too. 

“ This is the gas.” Jes was rattling off his 


FIRST LESSONS 


249 


information at a great rate. “ Did you ever see 
any gas ? Because if you didn’t you might get 
yourself smothered.” 

Involuntarily Joe stepped quickly back from 
the little harmless-looking jet of flame. But Jes 
didn’t laugh, not once. 

“ Do it burn iron ?” said Joe. “ Is the — the 
iron stick a-burnin’ ?” 

“ No,” said J es, “ it is gas ; it comes up through 
that iron pipe, and when you’ve got enough of 
it you just whisk it off — so.” Jes suited the 
action to the word, much to the country boy’s 
wondering delight. “And,” he went on, after 
getting hold of a match, “ you light it — so.” And 
again the little flame shot up from the pipe. 

“I suppose you burn lamps in the moun- 
tains ?” said Jes. 

“ Lamps an’ pinuts,” said Joe. “ At the Bock 
House thar — ” 

“ Say ‘ there,’ ” Jes interrupted. “ Don’t 
ever say ‘thar.’ And what in the world are 
‘ pinuts ’ ?” 

“Pinuts come out o’ the woods,” Joe ex- 


250 


a moonshiner’s son 


plained. “ Granny used to burn ’em mostly. 
They air fat chunks, you know, off the pine 
trees. Knots, an’ they burn toler’ble fair of a 
cold night.” 

“ Oh,” said Jes. “ You must say pine knots, 
not ‘ pinuts.’ Now we will go down and see 
the best of all — the books.” 

When Joe had carefully scanned the long, 
well-filled shelves in the library, his guide threw 
back the glass doors of a smaller case and ex- 
claimed exultantly : 

“ These are mine, every one of them. Shall 
we read now ?” 

He drew from the shelf a story-book, hand- 
somely bound and illustrated ; and curling him- 
self up on the sofa made room for Joe beside 
him. Suddenly he chanced to look at Joe’s 
face ; the book slipped from his fingers and fell 
to the floor ; the disappointment was too great. 

“ Oh,” said he, “ don’t you like books ?” 

Joe blushed and stammered; he was awk- 
ward and ashamed enough now, with this boy’s 
eyes watching him so intently. 


FIRST LESSONS 


251 


“Yes, I like ’em, I reck — suppose. I ain’t 
never see any.” 

Jes literally bounded to his feet. 

“ Never saw any books !” said he. “ Why, 
then, can’t you read ?” 

Feeling himself almost as criminal as when he 
had hauled apples to the illicit still in the moun- 
tains, poor Joe stammered : 

“ No , I can’t read.” 

It was at this moment that Jes turned from 
him in disgust, and his voice rang out so that 
his words reached the two in the study : 

“ Well ! I should think you certainly would 
be ashamed of that ; so I should.” 

“ I am,” was the low reply. “ I am mightily 
ashamed of it.” 

“ Well, then, why didn’t you learn ?” 

“ There ware no learnin’ places where I ware 
born.” 

“ No schools ! Do you mean there were no 
schools ?” 

Joe nodded. 

“ Nairy blessed one.” 


252 


a moonshiner’s son 


Jes forgot the dialect in his surprise. 

“No schools! Well, then,” said he, “you 
needn’t be ashamed at all, since it is not your 
fault, and you cannot help it. That which we 
can’t help is our misfortune. I am sorry I 
spoke so quickly. Would like for me to read 
to you ?” 

Dear, honest, impulsive, generous Jes ! Quick 
to err and as quick to undo. There was, as his 
uncle said, much that was beautiful and good in 
Jes. 

The two boys curled themselves up again on 
the sofa — gray jeans and handsome broadcloth, 
polish and simplicity — side by side, so close that 
ere long the two heads were pressed together, 
and a rough, hardly-used hand united with a 
soft, girlish palm in supporting the big book’s 
back. 

For nearly an hour the reading went on, and 
then Jes, grown weary, closed the book. 

“ Oh, don’t stop,” Joe begged. “ Don’t stop 
yit. Please don’t stop readin’ of it yit.” 

Jes regarded him steadily. 


FIKST LESSONS 


253 


“ Say 4 reading/ ” said he, “ not ‘ readin’;’ 
and never say ‘ yit.’ It is y-e-t — yet. No, I am 
tired now ; I wasn’t very well, you know. But 
I say, would you like to learn to read ?” 

“Would I? Well, now, I would just rather 
learn to read as to do anything in this world.” 

“ Well,” said Jes, “I’ll teach you to read if 
you like. And say, you mustn’t mind my cor- 
recting, you know, because you must learn to 
talk properly.” 

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Joe. “And I 
certainly will be glad to learn. I’ll do some- 
thing for you, too, some time. Granny allers — ” 

“ Always.” 

“ Always said the time ware — ” 

“ Was.” 

“ Was sure to come when we could return 
favors, and I ’most know it’ll come to us. But 
will we have time to learn ?” 

“ Why, we’ve got every night,” said Jes. 

“ I didn’t know but I’d have to work nights,” 
said Joe. “I used to work nights at the Bock 
House.” 


254 


A moonshiner’s son 


“ Oh, you poor boy, you,” said Jes. “ I don’t 
believe you truly know what it is to really rest 
and be hapjiy.” 

“ Yes, I do,” said Joe. “ I used to rest some- 
times on the mountain while old Kit cropped 
the grass. I’d just lay back flat on the ground 
watchin’ the clouds floatin’ by overhead, and 
list’nin’ to the flow of water through the laurel, 
so easy and gurglin’ like, sorter singing there in 
the wilderness ; and I felt that rested and happy 
I’d sometimes drop off to sleep and not wake uj3 
any more until Kit would rub her cold nose 
into my face. Then I’d jump up and find the 
moon risin’ over the mountain, and the water 
still singin’ in the laurel as sweet and sassy 
like. Did you ever hear the water running 
through a laurel brake?” 

It was Jes’s turn to acknowledge ignorance. 
He said “ No,” but at the same time he got up 
and went over to the piano, where he seated 
himself, and, slipping his slender fingers along 
among the white keys, said : 

“ Is it like this ?” 


FIRST LESSONS 


255 


Joe listened spellbound to the little rippling 
runs and trills. When he finished Jes looked 
around to find his listener silently weeping. 
The awkward, overgrown boy attempted to 
justify his emotion. 

“ It did sound so like the water slippiiT down 
the mountain through the laurel,” said he. 
“ Somehow it made me — feel — feel — I don’t 
know just how.” 

Jes got up softly and closed the piano. 

“ I know how you feel,” said he. “ It makes 
me cry, too, sometimes. My mother was a great 
singer, and she caught fire one night while 
singing in a big theatre and was burned to 
death. She didn’t die until the next day, but 
they never let me see her. My father had 
wasted all her money and had died, and she 
wouldn’t come and live with uncle because he 
was against her marrying. But they brought 
her here that night, and she died in this house. 
Her coffin stood right there by the window. It 
was white, and all buried under scarlet roses. 
She loved the red roses always, you see. Be- 


256 


A MOONSHINER S SON 


fore she died she called my uncle and gave him 
me ; what she said was : ‘ Take care of my baby, 
Ralph/ I was a little fellow then. But I 
remember it, and music always — seems — to — 
ch-o-ke — ” 

“ I know,” said Joe ; “ that’s the way it did 
me. You ought to be glad to remember your 
mother, though, even if it does make you cry. 
I don’t remember mine, but I know she was a 
good woman. And I’ve got a good granny, too. 
But I reckon my father done worse than waste 
money.” 

And then Joe told Jes the story of his life ; 
of the lonely rides before daylight, and of the 
danger, the deadly danger, ever lurking over 
the illicit distillers. 

When he finished Jes said : 

“ Weren’t you awfully afraid? Going along 
in the dark that way with only an old mule for 
company ? I should think you’d been fright- 
ened almost to death in the dark that way.” 

“ No,” said Joe, “ I was only afraid of the sin 
of it all. Granny always said that sin is the 


FIRST LESSONS 


257 


only thing a boy need be afraid of in this world. 
And it’s so ; there ain’t anything else to hurt 
us, just only sin. Is your name White ?” 

“ That’s what they call me ; yes. I took my 
uncle’s name ; he took my grandmother’s ; so I 
have only taken my own mother’s name, after 
all.” 

“ Boys ! Boys ! Bed-time.” 

Mr. White had looked in several times and 
hesitated to interrupt the growing acquaintance 
until the hands upon the study clock pointed to 
eleven. “Joe isn’t accustomed to hours like 
these ; you must teach Jes how to go to bed and 
to sleep at a reasonable hour, too, son.” 

Son ! The word had a magical meaning for 
poor Joe. Long after reaching his own room 
the echo of the pleasant word lingered in his 
heart like a benediction. 

The door between the boys’ rooms was closed, 
but not fastened. Joe lingered over his prepa- 
rations for bed, half hoping Jes would come in. 
Once he started to go for him, and did draw 
the door ajar, but he saw Jes with his back to 
17 


258 


a moonshiner’s son 


him busily preparing for sleep, and remember- 
ing that he was not well, Joe hesitated to disturb 
him again. 

But the glance into Jes’s room had awakened 
a new feeling in Joe’s heart. Again he was 
contrasting himself and his coarse clothing with 
Jes. Across the foot of Jes’s bed Joe saw a 
delicate white night robe, daintily ruffled and 
fluted; white curtains were looped back from 
the pillows with pale ribbons. Evidently 
neither labor nor love had been lacking to sur- 
round Jes with all things beautiful. 

Joe thought of his own miserable boyhood 
and its unattractive surroundings, and for a mo- 
ment his heart was full of bitter rebellion. Then 
his fingers accidentally came in contact with 
granny’s patch, and his ugly feelings took flight. 
He had had as much genuine affection as any 
boy ; it was only that the money had been lack- 
ing, perhaps, to render his life as easy as Jes’s. 
At least that was what he told himself, not 
allowing himself to think otherwise. 

“ And leastways I couldn’t help it,” he told 


FIRST LESSONS 


259 


himself, as he drew back the curtains and looked 
out upon the night. “ I couldn’t help it, and 
Jes said what we couldn’t in no ways help was 
not our blame, but our misfortune.” 

The moon was shining ; it was a comfort to 
think it was shining at the same moment upon 
the little cabins among the mountains where 
Sylvia and granny were lying asleep, dreaming 
it might be, of him. “ Sylvia, and granny, and 
Jube,” said Joe ; “ I sha’n’t ever forget Jube.” 
He couldn’t sleep, and he stood at the window 
watching the moonlight, wishing that Jes would 
come in. At last he went again and looked into 
Jes’s room. The gas was turned quite low, and 
in the semi-darkness he saw Jes, in his white 
night-shirt, quietly kneeling by his bed, saying 
his prayers. 

It was like a soothing draught to Joe’s tu- 
multuous thought. He went back and was 
soon fast asleep in his own bed. And the same 
moon that looked down through the curtainless 
windows of the Rock House upon the old gray 
head resting upon its coarse, clean pillow, shone 


260 


a moonshiner’s son 


for Joe, too, while he slept and dreamed of 
home. 

Jes did peep in at last, but Joe was asleep 
and his gas turned off. Jes crept stealthily 
back and turned off his light also ; he was 
accustomed to sleep with it burning, but to- 
night — well, there was something about the new 
boy from the mountains that made Jes ashamed 
of his cowardice. He felt afraid Joe might 
suspect that he burned his light because he was 
afraid of the dark. He remembered what Joe 
had told him of those lonely rides over the 
mountain, and how he had said it was only the 
sin of it that he feared. “ Sin is the only thing 
a boy need fear in this world.” And with 
granny’s lesson in his heart Jes crept into bed. 
It was the last night he ever burned the gas 
because he was afraid of the darkness. 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE WONDERFUL SHOPS 

When Joe awoke the morning after his 
arrival at Mr. Whited, Morrison was standing 
at his bedside ; the sun was streaming into the 
room, and there was a rush of water sounding 
in his ears. He sprang out of bed with a cry 
of alarm ; for an instant he fancied the Rainbow 
Falls were near, and that he was late getting to 
the still. 

Morrison smiled and hastened to reassure him. 

“ Your bath’s awaiting, sir,” said he, “ and if 
you please, I am to help you with your dressing 
this one morning.” 

Help him with his dressing; how funny. 
Why he had been dressing himself ever since 
he put on his first breeches. But after Mor- 
rison was done with him Joe began to feel that 
it was the first time in his life that he had ever 

261 


262 


A MOONSHINERS SON 


known the luxury of a genuine toilet. The 
man first plunged him into a hot bath, after 
which he deluged him with a cold shower that 
sent the blood tingling through his veins in a way 
that made him wonder if it were water or very 
fine needles pricking into his flesh. And when 
it was over Morrison cut his hair and carefully 
brushed it, pared and polished his finger-nails, 
after which he put on him a new suit of plain, 
well-made clothes, flipped a spray of perfume 
into his face, and slipped a linen handkerchief 
into his breast pocket, with the tip of the deep 
hem just visible. Then he opened the door 
and announced that the master was waiting for 
him in the library. 

Joe felt so awkward, so entirely ill at ease, 
that the servant took pity on him. 

“ Just try to feel as though you owned the 
place, sir,” said he. “ That’s the way I do 
when I goes out to a new service, and it helps 
things to come handy, mightily.” 

Joe laughed, and forgot his awkwardness in 
fancying how funny it would be to try to feel 


THE WONDERFUL SHOPS 


263 


that Mr. White’s big house belonged to him. 
Why, if he were master there he would — 

And unconsciously Joe began to trip down 
the stairs in his pliable new shoes for all the 
world as Jes would have done. 

He was laughing heartily at his “ foolishness ” 
when he reached the library door, and heard 
J es exclaim : 

“ Why, how good you look ! Doesn’t he, 
uncle?” 

“ First rate,” said Mr. White. “ I wish you to 
feel at home, my son, in good clothing, and 
among delicate surroundings. Such things are 
refining, though not absolutely necessary by any 
means to the development of character. Fe- 
me mber that, if you are ever tempted to think 
too much of them. Whenever they become a 
temptation to you, such as debt, they are no 
longer refining, but, rather, degrading, and it is 
time to give them up. I refer, of course, to such 
things as undue adornment and those little 
things, harmless enough in themselves, but dan- 
gerous if given too much attention.” 


264 


A MOONSHINER S SON 


Joe was not destined to be spoiled by good 
clothes ; he was glad to look a little more like 
Jes, whom he admired thoroughly, and glad to 
feel that the gap between them was, perhaps, 
beginning to narrow. Already he found himself 
trying to talk like Jes ; already the slow old 
drawl of the mountaineer was disappearing, for 
Joe remembered very carefully the slightest 
correction made in his speech. 

Mr. White left instructions with Jes to bring 
Joe down to the shops at eleven o’clock. And 
although Jes read and played on the piano, 
the hours dragged slowly until time for them 
to go. 

“We must go by the book-store and get your 
books for studying,” said Jes. “ You ought to 
begin right away, you know.” 

“But I can’t,” said Joe. “I ain’t got any 
money to buy the book yet, and I’ll have to 
wait till I can make it.” 

“ Why, it’s only twenty-five cents,” said Jes. 
“ I can give you that much.” 

Joe shook his head. 


THE WONDERFUL SHOPS 


265 


“ I couldn’t do that,” said he. “ I ain’t a 
beggar. Granny always said nobody has a right 
to be a beggar as long as he can work.” 

Jes stared. What kind of a boy was this 
he had stumbled upon ? An ignorant mountain 
stripling who refused gifts ! 

“Well,” said Jes, “I’ll lend it to you, then.” 

“ But I can’t borrow, neither,” said Joe. 
“Granny would make me give the book straight 
back if she was here.” 

“ Look here, Joe,” said Jes. “It’s an awful 
thing not to know how to read. I mean for a 
boy your size. You’ve already lost lots of time. 
It wasn’t your fault, but it is your fault now if 
you don’t learn when you have the chance, and 
you ought to remember that.” 

“Seems to me,” said Joe, “it would be 
worser — ” 

“ Worse,” said Jes. 

“ Worse to be borrowing when I can’t see my 
way to paying back. No, I must do without it, 
or else — ” 

“What?” 


266 


A MOONSHINEli’s SON 


“ I must work for it. That’s the way I always 
done — ” 

“ Did.” 

“ Did in the mountains. If I wanted any- 
thing at the store Mr. Jarvis let me earn it. 
That’s the way I aim to do always.” 

Jes’s eyes showed his surprise ; he had never 
heard of such a thing. 

Why, already he had several little accounts 
of his own at the stores. He generally had one 
at the book-store, and always one at the confec- 
tioner’s. It was his own little secret, and he was 
very careful always to settle them at the end of 
the month, when he received his allowance. He 
always took all the money his uncle was willing 
to give, too. And here was a boy who would 
neither receive gifts nor borrow. He wondered 
if, by-and-bv, he would not be offering to pay 
for the clothes he had on. There was no mov- 
ing a boy like that. Jes was about to give it 
up in despair. 

“ Well,” said he, “ that ends it; you can’t 
work for me.” 


THE WONDERFUL SHOPS 


267 


“ Why can’t I ?” said Joe. “ Don’t you ever 
work ? Don’t you need anything done ?” 

“ No,” said Jes. “ Never. Morrison does all 
I need, except blacking my shoes, which uncle 
requires me to do, because he says it is too much 
to ask of Morrison, unless I pay him extra out 
of my own pocket.’ 

“ Well,” said Joe, “ why can’t I black the 
boots for the book ? It would only be for about 
a week?” 

J es hesitated. “I don’t know what uncle would 
say. He knows I dislike to black my own shoes, 
and he thinks I am a little disposed to imposing 
sometimes.” 

“ We’ll not tell anybody a word about it,” 
said Joe. “ It is just paying a debt. If 
you’ll let me take it so, I will be glad to get 
the book. If you won’t, then it will have 
to wait.” 

So it was settled ; but Jes could not feel quite 
comfortable somehow. He knew that his uncle 
would not allow Joe to black his shoes if he 
knew of it ; yet, looking at it Joe’s way it seemed 


268 


A MOONSHINER S SON 


fair enough. He had already learned that Joe’s 
way was apt to he a fair one. 

Still, when they reached the shops and he led 
Joe around to the small glass enclosure that Mr. 
White called his office, he slipped the book into 
his overcoat pocket. Because he felt sure that 
if any question should arise Joe would make a 
clean breast of the matter. But Joe saw noth- 
ing of Jes’s uneasiness ; shared nothing of it. 
He was wholly absorbed in the wonderful things 
about him. The great room seemed almost a 
world of itself. There were heaps and heaps of 
beautiful lumber, some ready planed and j>ol- 
ished, some waiting the polishing table. In 
another room, of which he had merely a glimpse 
in passing, there were stacks of furniture ready 
for the market. In another department still 
they told him was the machinery, the gluing- 
room, and the varnish shop. 

There was so much of it that he was quite be- 
wildered ; he began to wonder if he ever should 
learn to move about with safety, still less to be 
useful in the wonderful place. 


THE WONDERFUL SHOPS 


. 269 


Mr. White seemed to guess something of the 
boy’s feeling, for he said : 

“ You know how it is done, Joe. By begin- 
ning right at the bottom.” 

“ Yes, sir,” said Joe. “ But could I begin at 
once — now ? I am willing to start at the bottom, 
sir ; but I’m not going to stay there.” 

Mr. White smiled. 

“ Hadn’t you better wait a while?” said he. 
“ Next week will be time enough to begin.” 

“ If you don’t care,” said Joe, “ I’d rather 
begin right now. ’Pears like it’s what I have 
been a-thirsting for all my life, Mr. White.” 

“Very well, then, you shall begin to-day. 
Jes, go down and send the foreman to me.” 

When the foreman appeared the master said : 

“ Mr. Johnson, I have brought you a new 
hand. I wish you to take this boy and find a 
place for him. His name is Bentley. Try him 
a week and then report to me.” Joe was led 
away by the foreman, and Jes went home alone. 
The boys did not meet again until six o’clock 
in the evening. 


270 


a moonshiner’s son 


After dinner Mr. White, looking into the 
library, saw them with heads bowed together 
over the table busily at work over Joe’s lessons. 
An hour later he looked in again. They were 
still at work, though Jes sat back waiting for 
Joe to master his task and begin a new one. 

That night, after Jes retired, he saw Joe 
softly enter the room and stop at his bedside. 

“ Hello !” he exclaimed. “ What’s up ?” 

“ Nothing,” said Joe. “ I was trying not to 
wake you. I am only looking for your shoes.” 

“Oh,” said Jes, “ let them be till morning.” 

“ No, I won’t,” said Joe. “ It was a fair bar- 
gain, and if you don’t want to stand to it, I’ll 
not have the book.” 

“ Go on, go on,” said Jes. “ Do anything 
you please. Only you’ve got to learn to read 
and write and talk. There !” 

“ You’ve got to learn.” The words reminded 
Joe of the first night of his arrival when Jes 
refused to be sick. He had almost learned to 
think that whatever Jes willed to do he was 
pretty sure to have it so. 


THE WONDERFUL SHOPS 


271 


As Joe was leaving the room with the shoes 
in his hand Jes turned on his jDillow and said : 

“ Say, I do believe you are a softy.” 

Joe stopped, his anger was up in an instant. 

“ You’d better not say that,” said he. “ I fit 
a man once, a grown-up man, for saying that.” 

Jes chuckled. 

“ Oh, well,” said he, “just say ‘fought,’ then, 
and we’ll let it pass.” 

The week passed pleasantly — gloriously to 
Joe. At the close of a Saturday afternoon the 
foreman tapped at the office door. 

“ I wish, sir,” said he, “ that you would just 
come and take a peep at your new hand.” 

Mr. White rose at once and followed the fore- 
man to the carpenters’ department, where Joe 
was at work. 

Before a long, rough carpenter’s table stood 
Joe, his big striped apron reaching from his chin 
to the tips of his shoes. Before him lay a broad, 
white plank, over which he was industriously 
running a plane. At one end of the table, 
propped up among the curling yellow shavings, 


272 


A MOONSHINER S SON 


stood a book. With each trip lie made to the 
end of the table the young carpenter took a 
peep at the book, and the two men saw his lips 
moving the while he applied himself to his 
double task of planing and learning his lesson. 
Now and then he stopped a moment to brush 
away the shavings that threatened to cover the 
j>age, but not once was his attention given to 
anything outside the work before him. He had 
no idea that he was being watched, not even 
when the master tiptoed forward to look over 
his shoulder and see what book it was that was 
dividing his attention. What he read there 
was — “ Goodriclds First Reader.” 

He turned away quickly, and beckoned the 
foreman to follow him. The humble patience 
of the first effort at securing an education ap- 
pealed to Mr. White more than all Joe’s troubles 
had touched him. 

“ Does he do his work well ?” he asked the 
foreman. 

“ Nobody in the place better,” was the reply. 
“ He lias a natural love for tools, and handles 


THE WONDERFUL SHOPS 


W'd 


them with a skill remarkable in a boy of his 
age. I put him to work in the carpenters’ 
shops after trying him at easy little odds and 
ends for half a day. It’s a pity, sir, he’s behind 
in his education, because that will necessitate his 
leaving the shops in a short time, I suppose, and 
he would make a famous hand by-and-by.” 

That night when the boys were again at work 
in the library, Mr. White, in his study, heard 
Joe’s voice carefully plodding through Good- 
rich’s first lessons : 

“ It-is-a-hen. Is-it-a-hen ?” 

When the lesson ended Jes said : 

“ You ought to have a copy-book ; it is time 
for you to begin writing.” Joe was silent; he 
knew it was to be the old battle over again that 
he had fought in regard to the reader. “ You 
might charge it at the book-store,” Jes went on. 
“ I know the man, and I could ask him.” 

“ No,” said Joe. “ It ain’t any use to ever 
tell me that again, Jes. I just won’t do it, ever. 
But I tell you ; I am to have Saturday after- 
noons off. I can find something to do, I know, 
18 


274 


a moonshiner’s son 


in a big town like this, and make enough to buy 
what I need. I’ll have to wait till Saturday.” 

“ You could learn a lot in that time,” said Jes. 
“ It’s a week off. Besides, the man won’t mind ; 
he’ll know uncle will make it good if you don’t.” 

“But I mind,” said Joe. “And granny 
would mind, too, if she knew about it. And I 
’most know Mr. White would, too. Besides, 
something might happen ; I might die, or never 
make any money to pay him ; then what would 
the man think ?” 

“ Well,” said Jes, “you are a funny fellow. 
You’ve got lots of old woman ways, and fool- 
ishness.” 

Joe colored. 

“If you just mean that for me, Jes,” said 
he, “I don’t care. But if I thought you was 
making fun of granny I’d thrash you right 
thar-there-thar — wliar-where you set-sit — ” 

Jes broke into a peal of laughter. 

“ I wasn’t,” said he ; “ truly, I wouldn’t do 
that. But I do just like to see you fire up for 
your granny. I wish somebody loved me that 


THE WONDERFUL SHOPS 


275 


way ; enough to fight for me. But you have 
got some funny notions, Joe.” 

“Well, they are good ones,” said Joe. “I 
ain’t ashamed of ’em. Granny knew what was 
right, if she was old and feeble, and didn’t have 
any hook learning ; and I guess her word’ll do 
to live by ; and so I sha’n’t take your advice to 
go against it. There !” 

“ No,” said Jes, “ don’t take anybody’s. Bub 
I say, Joe, would you mind borrowing my slate 
and pencil till you make your Saturday fortune ? 
You are welcome to it, and it can’t wear out, 
you know. At least the slate can’t. You may 
give me one of your own pencils any time I 
need it, if that’ll set your mind at rest. Would 
you object to that?” 

“ Not a bit of it,” said Joe, his good humor 
restored. “If I break ’em I’ll buy you more, 
honest and fair. Could I begin to-night ?” 

There was never any putting off about this 
boy. He meant to conquer in the battle he had 
begun ; and the sooner he began, the shorter the 
conflict. Long after Jes was asleep Joe sat in 


276 


a moonshiner’s son 

his own room patiently following the copy he 
had set for him. 

Mr. White heard stirring in the room long 
after midnight, and got up to go and see if either 
of the boys was sick. Joe’s door stood wide 
open, the gas was burning brightly, and seated 
at a table sat Joe, busy with slate and pencil. 

He was about to go in and send the boy off 
to bed, when Joe got up and passed noiselessly 
into Jes’s room. A moment later he came back, 
bringing with him Jes’s shoes, which he at once 
began to polish. When the task was finished, 
Joe crept wearily to bed, and to sleep. 

Mr. White had never been so angry with 
Jes as he was that night. 

“ So that is the way he treats an ignorant 
boy, who doesn’t know any better than to be 
his lackey, is it ?” said he, as he returned to his 
own room. “ Imposing on his ignorance and 
good nature. Well, we will see about that in 
the morning, sir.” Then, as he turned off his 
light again, his disappointment overcame him. 

“ Oh, Jes! Jes!” he whispered. “I had 


THE WONDERFUL SHOPS 277 

hoped those ugly characteristics were disappear- 
ing. Poor boy, poor boy !” 

As Joe was hurrying down to the library the 
next morning, he met Mrs. Mallory in the 
hall. 

“ Oh, Joe,” said she, “ what has the poor 
child been doing to you that the master is so 
angry with him ?” 

“ To me ?” said Joe ; “ why, nothing. Jes 
has been as good as gold to me always.” 

“ Then do go in there and tell him so, for 
lie’s giving the poor boy a terrible scolding, and 
Jes refuses to say a word in explanation.” 

Not knowing what dreadful thing he might 
expect, Joe hesitatingly opened the library door 
and entered. Jes stood moody and sulky before 
his uncle, who was giving him, indeed, a “ ter- 
rible scolding.” Joe had never seen Mr. White 
angry before, and it almost frightened him. 
He had no idea what Jes had done ; but he 
knew that whatever it was, he was equally 
guilty. He began to fear that he might, after 
all, be sent back to the mountain. It would 


278 


a moonshiner’s son 


break granny’s heart for him to fail ; and his 
uncle, he knew, would never cease to twit him 
with it. 

“ Come in, sir,” said Mr. White ; “ I want 
you. What does it mean, your blacking this 
young gentleman’s shoes ? I want to know if 
he required you, or hired you, or how he per- 
suaded you to play bootblack for him. I told 
that boy the night you came to this house that 
you were here on equal social footing with liim- 
*self; and I shall be disappointed to find you 
had not the same respect for yourself that I 
had for you. Now then, sir, go on.” 

“ Oh, sir,” said Joe, “ Jes has never been 
anything but goodness to me. He didn’t want 
me to black his shoes ; he said you wouldn’t 
like it — ” 

“ Humph !” 

“ It was all my fault ; all my work. I per- 
suaded him to it, and I said we need not tell 
you.” 

“ You did, eh? You persuaded him to false- 
hood?” 


THE WONDERFUL SHOPS 


279 


Joe colored and was silent. It was Jes who 
replied to the charge. 

“No,” said he, “he didn’t.” 

“ Be quiet, will you !” thundered his uncle. 
“ Go on, Bentley.” 

“ Well, sir,” said Joe, “ I don’t lie. I learned 
that much in the mountain. It’s maybe all I 
did learn, but I got that much. I needed a 
book, and I didn’t have any money. Jes offered 
to lend it to me, and I wouldn’t take it. I 
wanted to learn to read, mightily ; so much, 
that I begged him to let me work for the book. 
Granny always let me at home. We couldn’t 
think of anything else, so I begged Jes to let me 
black his shoes. I am just a-payin’ of my 
debt; that’s all. I am sorry if you think I’d 
oughtn’t, because now I must.” 

“ And if I forbid it ?” said the master. 

“ I hope you won’t,” said Joe ; “ but I am 
right — and I shall do it anyhow.” 

Mr. White looked from one boy to the other, 
then said to Jes : 

“Why didn’t you give him the book, sir?” 


280 


a moonshiner’s son 


“ Because he wouldn’t have it,” said Jes. 

“ Because,” Joe interposed, “ I could work 
for it. I ain’t a beggar, and I won’t borrow ; 
so I worked.” 

The lines of displeasure disappeared from Mr. 
White’s face. 

“ Boy,” said he, “ I don’t know what to say 
to you. If you had told me what was going on, 
I might have made it easier for both of you. 
But now the bargain must be completed, as Joe 
says. It is only right. And Joe, my boy, you 
got a good deal more in your mountain home 
than a strict regard for the truth. Stick to 
your principles ; debt is a halter around a man’s 
neck. I should find it hard to pardon either of 
you if I found you contracting debts. So, Jes, 
let us hear no more of that, sir. And Joe, your 
grandmother’s wisdom is a safe motto : 4 No 
man has the right to be a beggar who can work/ 
Now for breakfast. And hereafter, boys, don’t 
you think you’d best let me into your plans?” 

Joe resolved that he would always after that 
take Mr. White into any plan he might con- 


THE WONDERFUL SHOPS 


281 


sider.- But Jes remembered those unpaid bills 
at the book-store and the baker’s, and was silent. 

The next Saturday at noon Mr. White sent 
for Joe at the office. When he appeared he 
handed him some bills. 

“ Joe,” he said, “ I pay off my employes every 
Saturday at noon. This is your part for the 
two weeks’ work. I had not intended to pay 
you wages until you should have learned enough 
to be really of some use in the shops. But my 
foreman tells me that your knowledge of tools, 
and skill in handling them, together with your 
industry, entitle you to equal wages with the men 
in that department. Under the circumstances, 
I can do no less than pay you the same.” 

Joe looked at the money in his hand and tried, 
to speak ; he wanted it ; he needed many things 
that it would buy. Yet had he truly earned 
it? 

“ But, sir,” said he, “ you are boarding me. I 
did try to work the best I could, because it was 
like working out my board. But now — ” 

“ Well ?” 


282 


a moonshiner’s son 


“ Why, I must pay for my keep, sir.” • 

“ Not to me,” said the master, shortly. “ I 
don’t keep a boarding-house.” 

“ I allers — I mean I always did that, Mr. 
White. Even at my uncle’s I had to work for 
my keep. If you don’t let me do it here — ” 

“ Well, what then ?” 

Joe flushed and choked, but not once did he 
yield his point. 

“If you won’t let me pay my way, then I 
shall quit,” said he. 

“ Quit ! Are you crazy ?” 

“ No, sir, but I ain’t a beggar ; and your own 
foreman has said I could work same as a man. 
The boy as can work like a man ain’t got any 
right to be keered for like a baby.” 

Without another word the master touched 
his bell. 

“ Send Lawrence to me,” said he to the boy 
who answered the bell. 

“ Mr. Lawrence,” said he, when a tal^ very 
young man entered the office, “ you board, do 
you not?” 


THE WONDEKFUL SHOPS 


283 


“ Yes, sir.” 

“ What do you pay for your board ?” 

“ Two and a half a week, sir ; workman’s 
fare ; good enough for anybody.” 

“Very well,” said the master. “ You may 
go ; send Ellis here.” 

A moment later another workman, somewhat 
older, somewhat better dressed, appeared. Evi- 
dently he belonged to a department of the estab- 
lishment a degree beyond young Lawrence. 

“ You sent for me, sir ?” said he. 

“ Yes. I wish to know at what rate your 
landlady furnishes you board and lodging.” 

“ Three dollars a week, sir. Best in town.” 

“ Very good. You may go. Now, Joe,” 
said he, when the workman had disappeared, 
“ you understand what the rates are for board 
in Knoxville ; that is, workman’s board. I sup- 
pose mine is as good as Ellis’s, so if it will ease 
your conscience, you may hand Mrs. Mallory 
three dollars every Saturday afternoon.” 

“ Yes, sir,” said Joe, “ it will ease it mightily. 
And now, sir, may I go ?” 


284 


a moonshiner’s son 


The master glanced at the clock. “ I know 
it isn’t time for the whistle,” said Joe, “ but I 
want to spend that money before the stores are 
shut up, and I’ve got to go home first and gel 
Jes.” 

Mr. White could but wonder what it was Joe 
was so anxious to purchase besides his school 
books. He had said so little about money, and 
had never expressed the slightest desire for it ; 
it was odd to see him so keenly alive to its 
value all at once. 

He found out through Jes that night the 
great secret of Joe’s happiness in his first 
wages. A letter was written to granny that 
afternoon ; Jes wrote it, and a package was sent 
in care of the stage to the people at the Hock 
House; for Joe remembered them all, notwith- 
standing his hard treatment. It brought such 
joy to granny that Tom wondered “ if that 
thar gift o’ Joe’s fetched more pleasure or pain, 
the way granny ware divided ’twixt laughin’ 
an’ cryin’.” 

He knew which feeling predominated at his 


THE WONDERFUL SHOPS 


285 


own house, however, when he handed Sylvia 
the little package which granny had told him 
Joe sent “ along o' her’s for Silvy.” 

“ Oh ! it's a book,” cried Sylvia, when her 
eager little hands had torn away the wrappings ; 
“ it's a book with picture, too. Oh, but ain’t 
I glad Aunt Jane showed me how to read. 
God bless you, Joe Bentley, for my book.” 

The next letter Joe sent was to Jube, and he 
wrote it himself. 

“ It’s the first letter I ever tried to write,” 
said he, “ and Jes has been teaching me how to 
do it for a long time. Jes is the boy I got 
to write my last letter, and he’s mighty good to 
me, and I’m remembering all you told .me, and 
some day I am coming back to the mountain to 
see you.” 

A promise the old mountaineer laid up in 
his heart. Like Sylvia, he, too, had all faith in 
Joe’s promises. 


CHAPTER XV 


PROGRESS — CHANGES 

The years passed swiftly and pleasantly to Joe. 
Acting upon Mr. White’s advice, he had care- 
fully laid by a part of his wages each year, thus 
enabling him to pay his own way through 
school. Each vacation found him back at the 
shops, busy as he could be, and throughout the 
school terms he never failed to show up at the 
manufactory on Saturday mornings among the 
very first. Every step he made was onward, 
upward. With Jes, however, the years had not 
dealt so kindly. That fatal little habit of con- 
tracting debts, unknown to his uncle, had grown 
upon Jes. Once the accounts had been sent to 
Mr. White, who had paid them, and had given 
Jes such a lecture that for some time the offense 
was not repeated. But at length poor Jes’s love 
of indulgence got the better of him, and soon 
286 


PKOGRESS — CHANGES 287 

the accounts were running again as steadily 
as ever. 

To Jes, Joe was still a wonder. “ I never saw 
such a boy,” he would declare. “ You do nothing 
but work, work, work all the time. I wish I 
could do something, too.” 

“ Why, you can,” Joe replied, “ and you 
must.” 

And then Jes would fall to wondering if it 
might not have been Joe’s hard beginning that 
had taught him self-restraint and perseverance. 

“ You don’t have temptations,” he would say. 
“ You got your start in life before the love of 
luxuries had a chance to spoil you. Sometimes 
I wish I had.” 

And watching Jes’s struggle day by day, 
almost hour by hour, Joe sometimes felt almost 
glad, too, that his first years had not been years 
of ease and indulgence. 

One afternoon, when Joe had been a member 
of Mr. White’s household for about six years, 
he met Jes going up to his room in a very slow, 
solemn manner, that at once struck Joe meant 


288 


A MOONSHINER S SON 


something wrong. His first thought was that 
Jes was in some trouble about his indebtedness, 
and he at once followed him to ascertain if it 
might be the cause of his unhappiness. 

Jes met him at the door, and drawing him 
into his room, said : 

“It is all up this time, Joe. I am in for it. 
You know what uncle said.” 

“See here, Jes,” said Joe, “you surely have 
not been running up bills again after that last 
scolding ?” 

“ Yes, I have. You can’t know what a hold 
they get on one ; you can’t. appreciate it because 
you have never been in debt.” 

“No,” said Joe, “ I haven’t. But I can ap- 
preciate the utter folly and uselessness of your 
doing so. You must go straight to your uncle 
and ask forgiveness.” 

“ I’ll go straight out of this house and never 
enter the door again before I’ll do any such 
thing,” was the reply. “ In fact I thought of 
doing that anyhow.” 

“Oh, Jes, don’t be an ingrate as well as a 


PilOG U ESS — CHANGES 


289 


spendthrift,” said Joe. “ How mucli is it this 
time, and who are the parties ?” 

“ The same old story : books and sweets,” said 
Jes, drawing from his pocket two long accounts, 
which he handed to Joe. “You see, they 
threaten me with uncle, too.” 

Joe glanced at the amount of the bills and 
drew a long breath. “ Fifty dollars ! Why, how 
on earth did it run up so ?” 

“ Well, you see I didn’t settle the last two 
quarters. I had other things that were more 
pressing, I thought. And now, well, you see I 
just can’t. And I only have a week in which 
to settle, or the accounts will go to uncle. That 
is, the confectioner’s will. The book-house is a 
trifle more decent.” 

“ See here, Jes,” said Joe, “ you are in a bad 
way, I can tell you. There is but one thing to 
do ; go at once to Mr. White with it. . But you 
must do it ; these men must not be permitted to 
tell him.” 

“ Well, I say I won’t,” said Jes ; “ I’ll run 
away first. You know how he feels about debt.” 
19 


290 


a moonshiner's son 


“ And I can fancy liow lie would feel about 
runaways,” remarked Joe. 

Jes turned upon his heel, with a scowl. 

“ Well,” said he, “ you needn’t preach, that’s 
all.” 

Joe wasted no more words, hut all the after- 
noon he was busy trying to devise some means 
of helping Jes out of his trouble. About sun- 
set he went up to his room, and, finding the 
door slightly ajar, entered without knocking. 
Jes was half inside a closet, from which he was 
dragging a stout valise, and did not hear Joe 
enter. When he spoke, the valise fell back into 
the closet and Jes hurriedly closed the door 
upon it. 

“ See here,” said he, “ it isn’t exactly j^olite 
to be sneaking into a fellow’s room without 
knocking.” 

“ I don’t sneak,” said Joe, quietly, “ and I 
have come to try to help you. Mr. White will 
be here in half an hour. Come Jes, get your 
courage up to the point of braving the worst, 
and make a clean breast of it. He will be 


PROGRESS — CHANGES 


291 

angry, perhaps, but more hurt than angry ; and 
he will forgive you, too, and help you, not only 
to get straight, but to keep straight. Come, say 
you will.” 

Jes laid his hand upon an inkstand on the 
table near by. 

“ If you don’t get out of this room,” said he, 
“ I’ll throw this bottle at your head.” 

“ And when you do,” said Joe, “ I shall lay 
you across my knee and paddle you like a 
baby.” 

Jes was too angry to speak, but something in 
the face of the strong, robust young fellow be- 
fore him warned him that Joe meant precisely 
what he said. So, instead of throwing the bot- 
tle, he turned and threw himself across the bed, 
with his face buried among the pillows. 

Joe talked on, quietly, without noticing the 
hint that Jes might be tired of his company. 

“ Now, Jes,” said he, “ you are welcome to 
my money ; I haven’t much, because Mr. White 
put it into some stock for me yesterday. But it 
might stay off things.” 


292 


a moonshiner’s son 


Jes bounded to liis feet and confronted his 
would-be helper. 

“ Don’t you dare,” said he, “ to offer me your 
money. Do you suppose I have forgotten that 
when you came here, a mere stripling, that 
you refused to borrow twenty-five cents from 
me ? Do you think a boy of eighteen has less 
pride than a boy of twelve had ?” 

“ I remember,” said Joe, still retaining his 
quiet voice and manner, “ that the boy of twelve 
might have gone on groveling in ignorance a 
long time but for that same twenty-five cents. 
And you remember what I told you, that 
granny said there always comes a time when 
we can return kindnesses. It is my turn now, 
Jes.” 

Over the face of the angry boy swept a 
change ; he had had time for the sober second 
thought which poor Jes could always depend 
upon. 

A sob came in his throat, almost choking 
speech. He held out his hand, which Joe 
silently clasped. 


PROGRESS — CHANGES 


293 


“ Forgive me, Joe,” said lie. “ I didn’t in- 
tend to be mean, but, indeed, I am in a great 
strait. I couldn’t take your money, though I 
thank you just as much. I have always made 
it a matter of conscience that I would not drag 
you into my troubles and blunders. And, 
really, your example regarding that twenty-five 
cents has helped me to stick to this resolution. 
I shall get on somehow, I dare say ; don’t you 
worry. There ! there is the bell ; uncle lias 
come. Remember, Joe, not a word. Not a 
word to uncle.” 

Reluctantly Joe promised, but at the same 
time he reserved to himself the right of going 
down early in the morning and arranging Jes’ 
matters, offering himself as security until the 
end of another quarter. Meanwhile, however, 
Jes had made some plans for himself, which, if 
successful, would effectually balk Joe’s plans for 
his relief. 

He was quiet and thoughtful at dinner, and 
soon after, pleading indisposition, he went up to 
his room. There he counted over the money 


294 


a moonshiner’s son 


that remained of his last quarter’s allowance — 
nine dollars. 

“ It will not go very far,” said he, “ but it 
will go some — ” 

And then dragging the big valise out of the 
closet, he began packing it. Jes had determined 
to run away. 

“It is not,” he told himself, “as though I 
could confess it to uncle and be clear of it. It 
will never leave me; I have tried all my life, 
pretty well, to conquer the habit, and I can’t. It 
grows, and will only bring more and more trouble 
to uncle as I get older. I’d. best end it now.” 

Meanwhile Joe and Mr. White sat below in 
the study, talking over matters connected with 
the manufactory. 

They often sat thus together evenings when 
Jes was busy with his practicing, or reading in 
his room. 

After a while there was a lull in the conver- 
sation, and Joe heard the master breathe a deep 
sigh. Instantly he saw Joe’s eye fixed upon 
him, and said : 


PROG RESS — CHANGES 


295 


“Joe, I wish I could feel right comfort- 
able about Jes. He is a good fellow at heart, 
but somehow I am always afraid for him. If 
he only knew the sleepless hours I have spent 
for him, poor boy !” 

“ Hadn’t you better let him know, sir ?” said 
Joe. 

“ No ; Jes must feel that I trust him. That 
is his only safety. But I have felt the respon- 
sibility of him sometimes almost too much for 
me.” 

He dropped his face into his hand in a de- 
jected way that went to Joe’s heart. He felt 
glad that he didn’t have the trouble of Jes’s 
new disobedience at that moment to add to his 
grief. He had never understood till now what 
a care a boy might be, and he felt anxious lest 
he, too, had been a responsibility, carrying with 
it more pain than pleasure. He thought Jes 
ought to know, however. He was warm and 
loyal-hearted, and he felt that if he once could 
feel the anxiety that was oppressing his uncle 
it would have great weight with him. 


296 


A MOONSHINERS SON 


“ I hope, sir,” said Joe, “ that I, too, have not 
caused you anxiety ; if at any time I do I shall 
consider it a kindness if you will plainly point 
out to me — ” 

“Stop, Joe,” said the manufacturer. “You 
have been nothing but a joy and a comfort to 
me since you first set foot in my house. Re- 
member that always. There has never been an 
hour that I have not had reason to rejoice to 
find you here. You have repaid a hundred 
times over the interest I felt for you, both by 
your appreciation and your endeavors to profit 
by your opportunities. Never think of such a 
thing as my worrying about you. I rejoice in 
you always.” 

He rose as he spoke and held out his hand. 

“ I am going to bed now ; good-night my boy, 
and God bless you.” 

After he went out Joe went into the library 
and wrote a long letter to Jube. Jube was 
almost his only correspondent now, excepting 
an occasional letter from Tom. Tom never 
wrote long letters, however, and they were very, 


PROGRESS CHANGES 


297 


very few at that. Jube’s last letter told him of 
a visit lie liad made to the Rock House to see 
granny. She wasn’t very well, the letter said, 
and would talk of nothing but Joe’s last little 
visit to her. He had only been there for a day ; 
indeed, once every year he had run up for a 
day or two to see granny, but he never re- 
mained long, and never went anywhere else. 
All the little time he had to spare he preferred 
to give to her. 

His uncle, Jube wrote, was down with the 
“ rlieumatiz, sufferin’ mightily, an’ crosser’n a 
sick bear.” 

In his reply, Joe inclosed a bill, and asked 
the storekeeper to see that his grandmother and 
his uncle had everything necessary to their com- 
fort. Then, his letter finished, he turned off 
the gas below stairs preparatory to going up to 
his own room. 

But the moon shone so brightly that he 
stopped a moment in the hall to watch through 
the frosted door glass the brightness outside. 
He had stood thus for about ten minutes when 


298 


a moonshiner’s son 


lie heard a soft, stealthy footstep coming care- 
fully down the stairs. Ilis first thought was 
that thieves had gotten into the house, and had 
probably been in Mr. White’s room. 

He was unarmed, but he would take the mid- 
night prowler at a disadvantage, and that was 
something. And he knew that unless the man 
should get an opportunity of shooting him, that 
he could hold him until he could alarm the house 
and get assistance. He drew noiselessly back 
into the shadow, waiting and listening. The 
muffled footsteps drew nearer. The thief was 
coming that way. Instantly Joe was seized with 
a terrible fear of that which might already have 
happened to his benefactor. Perhaps he had 
been murdered, or dangerously hurt. So terri- 
ble was his anxiety that he was about to give 
the alarm and call up the house, regardless or 
consequences, when lie saw a slight, slim figure, 
wearing a boyish cap upon its small, round 
head, and carrying a heavy valise in one hand, 
slowly and noiselessly make the last turn in the 
stairs ; in another moment Jes stepped into the 


PROGRESS — CHANGES 


299 


moonlight -that fell through the door glass. The 
light was dimmed by the heavy plate frosting, 
so that the face was not plainly visible, but Joe 
recognized Jes’s familiar figure at once. He heard 
him feeling with his free hand along the door 
facing for the key, then a low, careful creaking 
as the door opened, before he recovered from 
his surprise sufficiently to act. 

He sprang out from his concealment and 
caught the runaway lightly, but securely, by 
the arm. 

“ Come back !” he commanded. “Stop! You 
shall not do this ungracious thing, Jesse White.” 

“ Let go of my arm,” murmured Jes. “ Let 
go before I strike you ; do you hear ?” 

“ No,” said Joe, “ I never will let you go to 
.your ruin if I can prevent it. Come back at 
once ; with all your faults don’t add to them the 
unpardonable one of ingratitude.” 

The door had swung slightly ajar, and in the 
moonlight Joe saw the anger in Jes’s eyes. Still 
he held to his arm. He knew that if he could 
detain him long enough for him' to think a 


300 


a moonshiner’s son 


second time of what lie was doing, that Jeswas 
safe. And he knew that once he should run 
away, he would not be shameless enough to re- 
turn ; for Jes was not lacking in pride, though 
pitifully wanting in discretion. 

The two stood facing each other an instant, 
then the hand gripping the valise slowly opened 
and Jes lifted his fist. 

“ Let me go — you — ” 

Joe caught the descending blow full in his 
face. 

“ Don’t call me names,” said he, blind with 
the pain ; “ you will be sorry to-morrow. But I 
shall not let you go ; not if you kill me where I 
stand. I love you too well to ever let you go 
while there’s life in my body. Now, unless you 
come straight back, I shall hold you here and 
alarm the house. Do you understand ? Once, 
twice — ” 

Jes hesitated ; something stirred in liis heart 
that was plainly visible in his face. Joe has- 
tened to take advantage of the feeling. 

“My poor Jes,” said he, “come back, and let 


PRO?. RE'S 3 — CHANGES 


301 


us figure out a way together. Come back, and 
let your brother help you.” 

Slowly the fingers clasping the door-knob 
relaxed, and the hand fell at Jes’s side. Joe 
reached out and noiselessly closed and bolted 
the door ; then, picking up the valise in one 
hand, he threw his arm around Jes and led 
him, sobbing like a child, back to his own safe, 
cosy room. They had reached the foot of the 
stairway, when Mr. AVhite called from the 
landing above : 

“ Hello ! what’s up ? What’s the matter down 
there? Who is it that is up so late?” 

“ It is I, sir,” said Joe. “ I sat up to write a 
letter.” 

‘‘Too late, Joe; too late,” said the master. 
“You’ll feel it to-morrow.” 

And then he went back to bed, leaving the 
way clear for Jes to get into his room unob- 
served. 

They had a long talk together, sitting there 
in the moonlight on Jes’s bed, but there was so 
little to be done that Joe was almost in despair. 


302 


A MOONSHINER'S SON 


“ I can only let them present the accounts to 
uncle, : ” said Jes. “ And I tell you now, Joe, I 
will not answer for the consequences.” 

Joe argued and suggested, but nothing that 
he could suggest seemed to satisfy Jes. 

“ It isn’t as though it were the first time,” 
said he. “ And it isn’t as though it would be the 
last. I tell you, I can’t cure the habit; it’s got 
me.” 

“ No,” said Joe, “ we can never cure ourselves, 
Jes. There is but one physician for diseases 
like yours.” 

“You mean — ?” 

“ God ; yes.” 

“ And what would God care about the silly 
debts of a silly young fellow like me, do you 
suppose ?” 

“Nothing that is large enough to trouble one 
of His children is too small for God’s interest,” 
said Joe. “ I read that somewhere, I don’t 
know where, but I know it is true. And it is 
just as true that He’ll help us when we call 
upon Him. Now, were I you — ” 


PROGRESS — CHANGES 


303 


“ Well,” said Jes, “ wliat would you do in my 
place ?” 

Joe shook his head. 

“ You will never do as I should, Jes.” 

Jes laid his hand upon Joe’s. 

“ Try me,” said he. 

“ Well, then, were I in the trouble that you 
are in, if I could not make up my mind to 
ask the advice of my uncle, I should go to 
those men and ask them to allow me to work 
out my debts. I should explain the situa- 
tion fully. If there is a spark of genuine 
manhood in them, and it is possible for them to 
do so, they will not refuse you. It is the 
beginning of vacation, you have nothing to 
do; and believe me, Jes, nothing but a gen- 
uine hard lesson like this will do the least 
good toward breaking you of the habit of in- 
dulgence which leads you into debt, and there- 
by into trouble. After it is all arranged, too 
late to undo, I would go to my uncle and tell 
him what I had done. He is too noble, 
and too keenly alive to any earnest effort on 


304 


a moonshiner’s son 


your part to do otherwise than commend your 
course.” 

“ Do you know,” said Jes, “ that you are ad- 
vising me to become a baker’s boy ?” 

“That is the only honorable way out of it, 
Jes,” said Joe. “A baker’s boy is as good as a 
banker’s, if he is honest and upright.” 

Jes was silent ; it seemed a very wild scheme, 
and he wondered if his uncle would allow it. 
Then he realized that Joe was right ; it was the 
only manly thing he could do under the circum- 
stances. He rose and held out his hand. 

“ I’ll do it,” said he. “ It seemed awfully 
silly at first, then it seemed preposterous, and 
then, somehow, it seemed all right. I’ll do it. 
Good-niglit, now ; I think I can sleep some.” 

Joe had risen, too. 

“Good-niglit,” said he. “A thing resolved 
upon is half done, Jes.” 

Early the next morning Jes went down to at- 
tend to his unpleasant business. He went alone ; 
Joe offered to accompany him, but he declined 
his company. 


PROGRESS CHANGES 


305 


“ Too much like dragging you into it, 
Bentley/’ , said he. “ Besides, Fm not baby 
enough to really need anybody.” 

He went first to the book-store ; somehow he 
felt less afraid of facing the head of that estab- 
lishment than he felt in offering himself to the 
dusty old baker who owned the confectionery 
adjoining the bakery. He followed Joe’s advice 
strictly and concealed nothing,admitting that his 
uncle had forbidden his running into debt, and 
that he preferred to work out his indebtedness 
rather than ask his uncle to settle it, or to tell 
him of his disobedience until he could see his 
way out of it. 

The old bookseller looked at him over his 
spectacles. There was that about the boy’s 
confession, and that in his regard for the good 
opinion of his benefactor, that appealed to the 
old man’s generosity. 

“ How old are you,” he asked. 

“ Eighteen, sir ; though I am aware that I 
look much younger. I have never been very 
strong, you see.” 

20 


306 


a moonshiner’s son 


“ And therefore spoiled,” said the bookseller. 
“Well, young man, I am disposed to help you, 
since you are disposed to help yourself. One of 
my clerks starts to-day on his vacation ; he will 
be gone a month. His salary is seventy-five 
dollars. He is an old and. experienced hand. 
You are young and inexperienced ; if you 
choose to take the place for four weeks at one- 
third his salary, you may go to work this after- 
noon.” 

Jes was so elated over this success that he 
almost forgot to be afraid of the baker. Here 
he didn’t find such easy settlement; the old 
baker wanted his money. 

“ I go to der uncle,” said he. “ He pay de 
bills I prings to him. I liaf but to say ‘ der 
young man impose on my slienerosity.’ ” 

Jes was so angry that he turned away with a 
defiant threat to meet the baker’s threat ; as it 
happened this was precisely the thing needed. 
“ Take it to him,” said he. “ Take it to him, 
and see how much more of his patronage you 
will get. He told me last month that if another 


PROGRESS — CHANGES 


307 


bill of mine was sent liim from this house he 
would give you notice never to put either his or 
my name on your books again ; there ! Go to 
him if you wish.” 

The baker knew a thing or two. He had no 
wish to endanger his own interest, and the manu- 
facturer’s accounts were always settled promptly 
every Saturday night ; they were not small ac- 
counts, either, as the baker knew. He called to 
Jes as he was leaving the house : 

“Vait; vait a minute, young shentleman. 
Yen did you say you could come ?” 

“ In one month precisely.” 

“ Yell, den, let it be for a mont ; den you 
coom back, an’ talk to me mit it again. I 
eggspect we make a goot trade.” 

“ Thank you, sir/’ said Jes. “ I trust we 
may.” 

Then came the hardest task of all. Jes was 
closeted that night with his uncle for two hours. 
Joe never asked and never knew what hap- 
pened. He felt that Jes was making a clean 
breast of it, however. And when at last he saw 


308 


a moonshiner’s son 


the study door open, and the old man stand a 
moment with his hand upon Jes’s head, he felt 
that it was laid there in benediction, and that 
hereafter poor Jes would not have such a single- 
handed battle with his frailties. 

The new work began at once; the summer 
proved a long and hard one to the boy earning 
his first wages. 

True, the work at the book-store was not so 
unpleasant ; the head of the establishment was 
kind, and Jes did his best. Still, he was a new 
hand and the work came awkward at first. 

And then followed those long hot days at the 
bakery. The best position he could get was 
that of delivery boy. Even Joe’s brown face 
flushed with indignation when Jes related at 
night his first day’s experience. Joe suggested 
to him not to remain ; such work as this was not 
expected of him. But Jes was as stubbornly 
determined to go on as he had been to shirk his 
obligation. Day in, day out, the long drives 
over the hot streets went on. Delivering bread ; 
there was not much poetry in it, and Jes forgot 


PROGRESS CHANGES 


309 


to think it might be heroic. He forgot every- 
thing but that he was doing his duty. One day 
when he was feeling hotter, and more weary than 
usual, he rang the bell of his uncle’s kitchen to 
deliver the loaves to the housekeeper. Mrs. 
Mallory opened the door to him, and seeing 
him standing there with his long white apron, 
and his arms full of bread, she exclaimed : 
“ You’re a brave boy, Jesse, and will make a 
man of yourself, I’m thinking.” 

After that the day seemed less hard to get 
through with. The little word of encourage- 
ment had served to give him new courage. 

At last it ended ; with the very last week of 
summer Jes’s contract for paying his debts was 
concluded. 

One evening he came home with a new light- 
ness in his step ; he hurried past the library up 
to his own room, where he made a fresh, careful 
toilet. He was the old Jes of a few months 
back. The old Jes? No, not quite ever the 
same. The boy that came out from the baker’s 
shop had brought with him an energy, and a 


310 


A moonshiner's son 


soul for work, which the old light-hearted Jes 
of the previous months had not known. 

Mr. White and Joe were waiting for him in 
the library. Mr. White had been anxious to 
send Jes to college this fall, but had not been 
able to get him to talk about it. He had been 
speaking to Joe on the subject when Jes pre- 
sented himself in the library. 

“ Well, gentlemen,” said he, with the familiar 
glad ring in his voice again, “ I am once more 
square with the world. And again I can hold 
up my head.” 

Mr. White held out his hand. 

“ You have fought a hard fight, my boy, and 
you have learned a lesson,” said he. “Always 
remember that debt is a destroyer of one’s self- 
respect, and I shall not regret your late un- 
pleasant experience.” 

“ I shall not forget it,” said Jes. “And I shall 
not forget the baker’s shop, either. Now, uncle, 
I am ready to talk about college. I am done 
with play, and I wish to get into my place in the 
world of workers. I liave found that which 


PROGRESS — CHANGES 


311 


Joe here learned at the outset: what a serious 
thing life is. In short, my season in the baker’s 
shop has made — a — man — of — me.” 

And the “ man ” was so overcome by emo- 
tion that had not the summons to dinner come 
at that moment he would have been guilty of 
very womanly tears. Two weeks later Jes left 
for college. 

Then it was that the manufacturer discovered 
what a comfort and stay he had in J oe. They were 
constant companions ; every evening found them 
together in the library, talking over the events 
of the day, arranging for the morrow, and be- 
coming every hour more dear to each other. 
Often throughout the day they would be closeted 
together in the office, untangling some matter of 
business, or else making new contracts, confer- 
ring upon the merits of some new invention, 
doing those endless little things necessary to the 
success of a large establishment. 

Sometimes the master would be absent for 
weeks, leaving the business entirely to Joe. 

“ He understands it as well as I,” he would 


312 


A MOONSHINER S SON 


say to his foreman at leaving. “As well and 
better, since he is a practical workman. Go to 
him as freely as you would come to me for in- 
structions.’ J 

The year passed quietly, with few changes to 
stir the interest, until one day a letter came 
from Jes that created more than ordinary ex- 
citement. Jes, little, mischievous, happy-hearted, 
fun-loving Jes, was going to enter the ministry. 
He had written to ask his uncle’s permission. 
Mr. White shed happy tears as he held Jes’s 
letter in his hand and talked it over with Joe 
in the library the night it came. 

“ I can die now,” said he ; “ I can die con- 
tent, knowing that both my boys are safe. Ah, 
Joe, if you knew how I have wrestled with God 
over that boy, praying for the triumph of the 
good that is in him over the weak ! And it 
has triumphed ! This is the very thing for 
him. The boy is a born missionary, only he 
was never serious enough to find it out until 
lately.” 

“ Yes,” said Joe, trying to smile and brush- 


PROGRESS — CHANGES 


313 


ing off a tear, “ he is a ‘ born missionary I 
ought to know, since I was the first heathen 
that ever fell to his charge. He taught me how 
to read.” 

It was a happy home-coming when at the end 
of the term Jes got back to them. Only for a 
little while had he come, however. His place in 
the world was waiting, and Jes was anxious to 
get into it. 

He had changed greatly in the year that he 
had been gone ; he was stouter, graver, more 
manly, and, if possible, more devotedly fond of 
Joe than he had ever been. 

One night when the two sat alone after din- 
ner waiting for Mr. White, who had returned to 
the office at the manufactory for some papers 
that he had left there, they talked over their 
experiences of the past and their prospects for 
the future. 

“You see,” said Jes, “I can’t help feeling, 
Joe, that you and I have acted somehow as foils 
to each other. Surely two boys more unlike 
were never thrown together ; sometimes, look- 


314 


a moonshiner’s son 


ing at it, it seems to me that it was a risk. 
Another way, it seems all right. It proved to 
he all right, to be sure ; yet I rather think it 
was your simple beginning in the mountains, 
together with the hard old truths and splendid 
examples of the two you never have grown 
weary of quoting, ‘granny’ and ‘Jube,’ that 
helped us both along. We might, you know, 
have imbibed the weak that was in each other’s 
characters.” 

“You forget,” said Joe, “to put Mr. White 
into your calculations. Remember the beautiful 
example, the wise head, and the warm sympathy 
that have surrounded and followed us both all 
these happy years, Jes.” 

“ I do remember,” said Jes. “ I remember 
and love him always. Yet it is to you that I 
owe the important, turn, the critical decision 
that really shaped my destiny. It was you who 
sent me into the ministry, Joe. And to me it 
has brought a beautiful lesson ; the good that 
God sends into our lives He expects us to pass 
on to another less fortunate. My grandmother 


PllOGEESS — CHANGES 


315 


rescued my uncle ; lie passed the blessing on to 
you ; you have handed it back to me. God’s help 
is a loan rather than a gift. We use it and pass 
it on, as my uncle did, and as you have done.” 
“ What ! I?” 

“Yes; I couldn’t forget that baker’s boy. 
So few people gave me a good word, or even a 
kind look, that summer. They did not know 
who I was, and did not think it necessary to be 
polite to a mere delivery boy. But it taught 
me what a varied thing life is ; and how many 
have to struggle through it without ever a good 
word or a lift along the way. I think I deter- 
mined, really, then to give my life to saying 
these good words. I found where I was needed. 
Then, too, that ugly experience showed me 
where I was drifting, and it frightened me. If 
I had run away that night, as I tried to do, 
I would have been lost. I know that. I hope 
our lives may always touch in some way, Joe. 
You’ve been the prop to my weak boyhood. I 
tell you so, frankly.” 

“Honors are easy,” said Joe. “ You taught 


310 


A MOONSHINERS SON 


me to read. Do you remember the night I 
learned that ‘ It — is — a — hen ?’ ” 

They both laughed, and the talk turned to 
lighter things. 

At last Joe remembered that it was time for 
Mr. White to come back. 

“ I think,” said he, “ that I shall meet him 
and walk back with him. He hasn’t felt so well 
lately ; complained of swimming in his head. 
You needn’t sit up, Jes, unless you prefer.” 

“ I think I shall,” said Jes. “ I haven’t long 
to be with him, and I am eager not to lose one 
moment of the time.” 

Joe smiled, and turned, his hat in his hand, 
to say : 

“ When he got your letter he said, ‘ I am 
ready to die now ; both my boys are safe.’ ” 

“ Thank God he can feel so,” said Jes, fer- 
vently. “And I thank you for telling me, Joe.” 

As J oe hurried down to the office, his uneasi- 
ness increased. He censured himself severely 
for allowing Mr. White to go alone, at night, to 
the works. True, the watchman was there, but 


PROGRESS — CHANGES 


317 


in another part of the building, and engaged in 
his own work. 

He felt relieved when, passing along the 
street, he peeped through a chink in the 
window-blinds and saw the figure of Mr. White 
sitting quietly at his desk. 

“ He has been busy and has forgotten to watch 
the time,” Joe told himself. A moment later 
he opened the door and went in, whistling as he 
went, in order not to startle his employer. 

As he approached the glass enclosure he could 
get a better view of the desk than that afforded 
through the chink in the shutters. Suddenly 
it struck him there was something unusual in the 
position of the body occupying the chair at the 
desk. The head drooped forward in a weary 
way, and, though the eyes were opened, Joe saw 
that Mr. White was not looking at anything. 

With a cry of alarm, he threw back the door 
and entered the private enclosure, calling as he 
went. There was no reply, but on the pave- 
ment outside he heard footsteps, and knew that 
the night watchman had heard his call. 


318 


a moonshiner’s son 


Fearing tlie worst, Joe seized the hand lying 
upon the desk ; it was warm. “ Thank God !” 
said he, “ there is life.” He drew the beloved 
head to his bosom and looked down into the 
beautiful old face that had borne so much of 
heaven’s goodness in its familiar features. 

The forehead was moist and cold ; the eyes 
were staring and sightless. “ Oh ! my poor, 
poor friend,” said Joe. “ To think you were here 
alone at night, and suffering.” 

He placed him gently upon the floor and ran 
to the door to summon aid. 

“ Help !” he cried to the watchman coming 
down the sidewalk. “ Help ! This way.” 

A policeman passing at the next corner heard 
the cry and came running also. 

“ Get a doctor, quick !” cried Joe. “ Mr. 
White has had a stroke of paralysis.” 

When the doctor arrived Joe sent a messenger 
on to prepare Jes and Mrs. Mallory, so that 
when they reached home the house was ready to 
receive its stricken master. 

It was hopeless from the first, the physician 


PROGRESS — CHANGES 


319 


liad said, so that none of the watchers left his 
bedside all the long night. Jes and Joe watched 
eagerly for any sign of recognition that he might 
make before the end came ; but he never knew 
them again. It was as though he had indeed 
only been waiting until he should know that 
“ both his boys were safe ” before leaving them. 

At dawn the gentle, sympathetic spirit passed 
away. 

When the will was read it was found that he 
had left his fortune to Jes. All except the house 
and the shops. These he bequeathed to Joe. 
“ Jes’s work will call him elsewhere/’ the will 
read, “ but Joe will follow in my footsteps. And 
I am sure I can trust him to take care of Mrs. 
Mallory.” 

There were little gifts to the servants, a dona- 
tion to his faithful old housekeeper, and certain 
remembrances to some of his workmen who had 
served him long and faithfully. The life that 
had been so helpful to others seemed to be carry- 
ing on its good works, even beyond, and after it 
had passed away. 


CHAPTER XYI 


AFTER MANY DAYS 

Another year had passed ; Joe began to feel 
settled in his new position as master of the big 
shops. Jes was entering upon his first charge, 
so that he didn’t write very often of late, and 
Joe began to think more and more of the friends 
he had left upon the mountain. They were not 
so many now ; his uncle had died during the 
year, and so, too, had granny. She had lived 
long enough to see her boy safely started upon 
the life road, and then one quiet day in summer 
the old hands laid by their work, and granny 
went home. Under the moaning old hemlock 
on the mountain top they laid her away to 
sleep. 

Others were missing, too, from the old scenes 
of his childhood. One day a letter had come 
from Tom Tate saying that Sylvia was ill again. 

820 


AFTER MANY DAYS 


321 


Her old enemy, the rheumatism, had appeared 
again, and “ poor Silvy air failin , fast,” said the 
letter. 

Then Joe did something that he had wished 
many times in his stinted and unhappy boyhood 
that he was able to do; he sent Tom the money 
to carry himself and Sylvia to Florida. 

And there, in the beautiful land of flowers, 
under the warm skies, and in sight of the gentle 
waters of the Indian Fiver, Tom had buried 
her. She would sleep as well, Joe knew, with 
the birds to sing for her the winter long, and 
the golden oranges shining through their satiny 
leaves, as though among the shadows of the grim 
old mountains. Yet he felt sorry that she was 
not there ; somehow he fancied the old mountain 
must love the little dust of her that was so closely 
associated with its glooms and its gladness. 
When she died Tom wrote again to give him 
Sylvia’s last message : 

“Tell Joe good-bye, and I shaVt forget 
him.” 

Joe sighed for the little child friend of those 
21 


322 


a moonshiner’s son 


first unhappy days, and felt glad that she had 
remembered him so fondly at the last. There is 
always a sacred regard for a message from one 
crossing into the unknown. It is a presence 
that follows one through all after life. Joe was 
not sorry to think the love in a little child’s 
heart might perhaps have been carried across 
the unknown. News still came from the moun- 
tain, however. Jube wrote; not often, for Jube 
found letter-writing a difficult pastime. He was 
growing old, the letters said ; and he had suffered 
misfortunes of late. His house had been burned ; 
his wife had died ; many of his old friends moved 
away. He was living alone, in the store, doing 
his own cooking, and sleeping nights in the 
room over the store where in the old days the 
peltry had hung from the rafters. 

The last letter from him came in October ; the 
tenth October since the raiding of the illicit 
still under the Rainbow Falls. 

Joe was sitting in his office when the letter 
was handed him, just before the hour of closing 
up. He read it before going home. At the very 


AFTER MANY DAYS 


323 


bottom of the page there was a postscript; lie 
had been very near overlooking it : 

“ I have lost,” said the postscript, “ another 
dear friend.” 

That was all; and written in the crooked, 
cramped hand of an uneducated old man, away 
up among the mountains of Eastern Tennessee. 
But as he read the simple message, something 
slipped along Joe’s cheek and fell, unchecked, 
upon the page. The young master knew well 
the royal heart beating in the bosom of the 
rough old mountaineer. He tossed the letter into 
his desk, locked it, and rang for the foreman. 

When the man appeared, Joe was getting into 
his overcoat. 

“ I am going away for a few days,” said he, 
“ and I leave you in charge until I return.” 

“ Any address, Mr. Bentley ? ” said the fore- 
man. “Any address, in case of accidents ? ” 

“ No,” said Joe. “ I shall be off the railroad 
where a message could not reach me. I am going 
up into the timber country, where Mr. White 
used to buy.” 


324 


a moonshiner’s son 


Once again the maple leaves were drifting ; a 
purple haze rested upon the hills ; there was a 
gurgle of water among the laurel brakes ; nuts 
were falling. 

The settlement store was something the worse 
for wear. The weather had beaten it gray, 
the sun warped the clapboards of the roof. 
The doorstep upon which the moonshiner’s 
son had sat one desolate day in September, 
holding the bridle of a gray mule, had twice 
succumbed to the pressure of heavy calf-skin 
boots, and had been twice replaced by the old 
storekeeper. Now it was ready to tumble down 
again, and the storekeej^er seemed not to notice 
it, until the few old neighbors remaining began 
to say of him, “ Jube’s ageing some.” 

Still he did not, as some advised, “ stir 
himself to find another step.” He was get- 
ting careless since his wife left him ; nothing 
to work for, he told himself ; and sometimes 
spoke of selling out to a man over in an adjoin- 
ing county who was anxious to buy the store. 
The visitors to the settlement often found the 


AFTER MANY DAYS 


325 


door closed, for old Jube liad fallen into a liabit 
of walking out alone into the forest, communing 
with nature in the vastness of her solitudes. 
During these rambles he often thought of the 
boy he had tried, in his gruff way, to help over 
the rough places in the life road. Always, 
when he had heard from him, he was climbing 
— climbing. And always after a letter from 
the boy he would hurry over to the old barn 
and throw down an extra feed to a dilapidated 
old gray mule that he called “ Kitty,” and that 
had been cosseted and spoiled into a lazy old 
age, that was still enjoying itself at a generous 
corn-crib. Sometimes he patted the mule’s back 
and said: 

“Jest us two left, Kitty ; we ought to be good 
to one ’nother.” 

It was late one morning in October, when he 
was returning to the store from one of his lonely 
walks, that he fell to thinking of the mule’s 
former master. The old store seemed more 
gloomy than usual this morning ; it was near 
noon when he put the key at last into the lock. 


326 


a moonshiner’s son 


Visitors coming early in the clay liad declared 
that Jube was “ gittiiT triflin’.” But the store- 
keeper was smiling as he went back to the 
fireplace and lighted his pipe. He was think- 
ing of the last letter he had written Joe. 

“ Maybe,” said he, “ I’d ought to a-told who 
that tliar ‘ dear friend ’ ware who died. I could 
a-told. I useter tell the chap a good many 
things when he was here. I told a lie for him 
onct. I don’t know to this good day if I done 
right or no. He was jest a boy, no mammy, 
worse than no daddy, an’ I aimed to do what 
looked to me best. But, somehows, I have 
allers hated that thar lie.” 

There was a rattle of wheels running lightly 
along the sandy road. The storekeeper knew 
without looking up that the easy-running 
vehicle did not belong to the mountain. As he 
rose to go to the door, a light carriage, drawn 
by two handsome bays, drew up and stopped. 
A young man leaped to the ground, tossed the 
lines aside, and ran into the store. 

His step was a little unsteady as he mounted 


AFTER MANY DAYS 


327 


the half-rotted old doorstep, and his eyes were 
shining and soft as he looked about the lines 
of shelves, half-emptied of their varied treas- 
ures, the peppers and the tin cups hanging side 
by side ; the big boxes and barrels, and among 
them, slowly rising to meet him, the old store- 
keeper himself. 

“ Morn in’, stranger/’ said the merchant, in 
his familiar way. 

Did the young eyes twinkle ? Or was it a 
mist that obscured the stranger’s vision for the 
moment, as he answered, cheerily : 

“ Good-morning. I wish to see Mr. Juba 
Jarvis.” 

“ Well, stranger, you ain’t got to go any fur- 
ther for that,” said the old man. “ What can 
I do for you, now ?” 

Surely the young eyes did twinkle, as their 
owner ‘stepped forward and, without warn- 
ing, clasped an arm about the old merchant’s 
neck. 

“ Oh, Mr. Jarvis ! don’t you know me ? Don’t 
you remember Joe, the moonshiner’s son?” 


328 


a moonshiner’s son 


The storekeeper gasped, stared, and dropped 
back into his chair again. 

“ If it ain’t — little Joe Bentley — I’ll — be — 
blowed !” said he. “ Stan’ back thar, Joe ; stan’ 
back ; you’ve sort o’ knocked the wind — out — 
o’ me.” 

He fidgeted nervously a moment, tapped the 
bowl of his pipe upon the hearth, blew his nose 
with all his might, and drew the back of his 
hand suspiciously across his eyes, while Joe 
stood by and laughed. Then said he again : 

“ Stan’ back thar, son ; stan’ back, an’ let me 
git a good look at you. My ! My ! But I’m 
glad to see you, Joe.” 

Laughing like a boy again, Joe stood back 
for inspection. When it was over they shook 
hands again, took seats and began to talk. 

“ What fetched you, son ? What fetched you 
back to the mount’ll?” said the storekeeper, 
thinking, with a chuckle, of the last letter he 
had written. 

“Well,” said Joe, “that ‘ friend’ you had 
die, for one thing.” 



“LET ME GIT A GOOD LOOK AT YOU” 

(Page 328) 


■■■■ I-'-'.- 























































AFTER MANY DAYS 


329 


“ Yes,” said Jube, “ it’s a trifle lonesome since 
old Kit was took.” 

“ Who ?” 

44 Why, ole Kit, son ; surely you haven’t for- 
got ole Kit, your 4 pardner,’ Joe ?” 

44 Oh, Mr. Jarvis !” said Joe; “is it possible 
you have kept the old mule all these years for 
my sake?” 

“ She died week ’fore last,” was the reply. 
“A 4 dear friend,’ as I writ you. What else 
fetched you, Joe ?” 

44 What else ? Why, I came on a little busi- 
ness.” 

44 Special ?” 

44 Yes ; very special. I have come to take you 
off home with me.” 

The storekeeper fairly bounded from his 
seat. 

44 To fetch me away from the mount’ll ! Why, 
I couldn’t live off ’n the mount’ll, Joe.” 

44 Yes, you could, too,” said Joe. 44 And 
you’ve got to go. I just can’t feel satisfied to 
know you’re up here all alone, in your old age. 


330 


a moonshiner’s son 


There’s no sense in it ; your home is gone, and 
your wife ; and I want you ; I need you.” 

The old man blew his nose lustily. 

“ Son,” said he, “ the most I ware hopin’ for 
was to hear you say you’d come to see me, 
special. Why, son — ” 

He stopped, choked ; somehow the coming of 
this boy, who had left him a mere stripling, 
ignorant of all things save hardship, and had 
come back full of success and with the young 
heart of him unchanged, filled with the simple, 
boyish affection and gratitude it had carried out 
into the world, touched him, and speech was 
choked by tears. 

His coming had awakened tender memories, 
too, in the breast of the old mountaineer. 

“Yes,” said lie, after a long pause, “I miss 
Sary mightily, I ain’t denyin’ o’ that. An’ I 
miss the old house, too. My grandad built that 
house, and it never sheltered a rascal yit, as I 
knows on. I miss it mightily every time I 
look across the road. An’ I miss the horn 
a-blowin’ fur dinner whenever I git ter slicin’ a 


AFTER MANY DAYS 


331 


strip o’ bacon to brile fur my lonesome meals. 
I even missed old Kit. But Lor’, I reckon I’d 
miss the mount’n more’n all the balance. Leave 
the mount’n ! I couldn’ think of it, son.” 

“Yes, you can,” said Joe. “ I’ve come for 
you, and I’m not going away without you. I 
intend to tuck you into that trap and carry you 
down the mountain this night.” 

“ But the store, Joe ; think o’ the store.” 

“ Bent it,” said Joe. “ Or sell it ; give it away ! 
I don’t care what. I’ve got enough for you, I 
reckon. You don’t need a blessed thing in here ; 
and I don’t want a blessed thing in here but you. 
Come, Mr. Jarvis, time to be stirring.” 

“But, Joe — ” 

“ Now, Mr. Jarvis, don’t,” said Joe. “ I want 
to do it. You did so much for me ; let me pay 
my debt. I want to take care of you the rest of 
your life.” 

“ P’sher ! I didn’t do nothin’ ; nothin at all.” 

“ You did, though,” Joe insisted, “ and I mean 
to take you home with me. I’ve a nice home, 
and Mrs. Mallory is my housekeeper. You 


332 


A MOONSHINEIi’s SON 


needn’t idle, either ; you shall oversee one of the 
departments of the manufactory, if you like. 
You must come. Is the store the only difficulty ?” 

“ N — o — ” said Jube, “ thar’s a man in the 
’j’inin’ county would buy the store — ” 

“Send for him at once,” cried Joe; “there’s 
my team at the door. We’ll finish up the busi- 
ness and be off for home by the time the moon 
rises over old Pine Knot Mountain.” 

The storekeeper laughed nervously. 

“ Don’t be too brash, son ; I ain’t said I’d go 
yit. If I was to die — I’d like to sleep ’long o’ 
Sary— ” 

“ You shall,” said Joe. “ I promise you 
faithfully I’ll bring you back and bury you on 
the mountain.” 

“ Tliat’d be more homeful like. But — ” 

“ Well ! What now ?” 

“ It ain’t any fun takin’ a old man up by the 
roots, so to speak, an’ puttin’ of him into new 
soil. A tree wouldn’t stall’ it ; an’ I’ve noticed 
as men an’ trees ain’t so mighty unlike. Can’t 
transplant ’em mighty well when they’re old. 


AFTER MANY DAYS 


333 


But I ain’t forgetful that you wanted me to go, 
son. I’m jest too old, too old ; that’s all. As 
for what I done for you, I don’t rickerlict but 
one thing worth mentionin’. I’d ought to a’ 
forgot it long ago, but somehow’s it wouldn’t lay 
easy on my mind. I’ve allers noticed when a 
thing won’t lay easy on the mind the best thing 
to do ’s to git it off. I’m goin’ to tell you 
about it ; maybe you-uns can make it out cl’arer 
than I ever could. I admit it has worried of 
me some all these years to know if it ware 
wrong. You ware sech a little chap ; no mammy; 
worse than no daddy. Lookin’ at you then, an’ 
at you now, I can’t but hope God A’mighty for- 
gives me for that thar lie I told for you.” 

“ For me, Uncle Jube ?” 

“ Yes, son, for you; I don’ know as it ware 
right, an’ I ain’t goin’ to make no brag of it. 
I’m a’ old man, an’ I never ware blessed with 
uncommon learnin’ ; but I allers tried to keep 
a fair conscience, an’ I have allers set it down as 
a man’s own soul ware his first obligation ; an’ 
I never felt obligated to lie fur nobody. But I 


334 


A MOONSHINERS SON 


tol’ the revenuers that thar night you ware ray 
son. They ware huntin’ for you.” 

For a moment Joe could not speak; some- 
thing rose in his throat and choked him. He 
turned abruptly away, and walked to the window 
at the other end of the store. 

He understood just what that lie had meant 
to that “ fair conscience !” He understood fully 
just what it had meant to him, the boy whose 
life Grim’s mean revenge would have ruined. 
Fora moment lie could not see the mountain 
tops that had looked down in grim silence upon 
his miserable boyhood. Again the old scenes 
returned. The furnace, glaring like a round, 
red eye upon the night ; the smell of the liquor 
upon the breath of the distillers, sickening, 
repulsive. The roar of the cataract, and the call 
of the screech-owl in the depths of the woods ; 
the weary-boned boy jogging along the uneven 
roads in the misty morning, astride an equally 
weary mule. And last, the raid, and that ter- 
rible fight, followed by the flight in the dark- 
ness ; his own fear, and the unspeakable feeling 


AFTER MANY DAYS 


335 


of horror lest he, too, should be seized and car- 
ried away as a law-breaker. He recalled the 
two terrible pitfalls into which his inexperi- 
enced, boyish feet had so nearly stumbled — the 
raiders first, and afterward the sheriff. And, 
recalling them, he could trace the rescuing hand 
of old Jube in both. 

He turned to him, where he stood beside the 
battered counter, his hands lying idly folded 
within each other, his old face, seamed and sad- 
dened by time and sorrow, lifted to the sunlight. 
Joe took one of the wrinkled hands in his. 

“ There is but one way,” said he, “ to make 
the lie truth, and that is to come home, indeed, 
to your son.” 

The old man laughed ; he had never thought 
of that. Yet it moved him; it did seem a reason- 
able righting of the trouble, after all. 

“ I’ll have to work, Joe,” he insisted, when 
the boy had been sent for the willing buyer 
in the adjoining county; “I’ll have to work. I 
aim to earn my own salt, as long as the good 
Lord sp&r’s me.” 


336 


A MOONSHINER S SON 


Later they had their dinner, which Joe in- 
sisted upon helping to get. 

“ I am going to make the coffee in this smoky 
old pot ; oh, but don’t I know how ! I made it 
for granny many a time. I stopped at her 
grave to-day, Uncle Jube, when I went over to 
speak to Aunt Jane. What are you going to 
cook the batter bread in ? No, sir ; you are not 
going to fry any bacon in that pan. Slap it 
down there on those live coals. Oh ! but this 
does remind me of granny — ” 

“ I wisli’t she could see you now, son,” said 
Jube. 

“ Perhaps she does,” said Joe. “ I like to 
think so, anyhow. And, at any rate, she knows 
what you did for me, Uncle Jube.” 

The old man looked up from the broiling 
meat he was lifting from the coals. 

“ Now, Joe,” said he, “ you shut that up, else 
I won’t go a foot. I done nothin’; nothin’.” 

“ Yes, you did,” said Joe. “ You spoke the 
* word in season,’ and it has, indeed, been to me 
as apples of gold in pictures of silver.” 


AFTER MANY DAYS 


337 


There was a lull in the conversation ; the 
broiling bacon sputtered and spat and curled 
itself into rebellious little hoops. The bread in 
the oven browned to a beautiful golden shade ; 
it was growing late. Visitors would be coming 
to the store by-and-by. 

“ Uncle Jube,” said Joe, “ shall we start home 
to-night ?” 

The storekeeper shook his head. 

“ To-morrow, then ?” 

“ Next day, son ; next day.’ 

“ But why ? We are — ” 

A step sounded upon the rotting old planks 
at the door ; the old man leaned forward, and 
put his lips to Joe’s ear : 

“ Not a word more, son, not a word more. 
We’ll go next day. I want some o’ these folks 
to see you, son. I want ’em to see what the good 
Lord has raised up for hisse’f out o’ the moon- 
shiner’s son.” 


THE END 


Comrades True 

OR 

PERSEVERANCE vs. GENIUS 

By Edward S. Ellis, A. M. 

Author of “Among the Esquimaux,” 
“The Campers Out,” etc. 

320 Pages Illustrated 

Cloth, $1.25 

In following the career of two friends from youth to 
manhood, this popular author weaves a narrative of 
intense and at times thrilling interest. One of the boys 
is endowed with brilliant talents, is quick and impulsive, 
but after a few efforts is easily discouraged. The other 
possessing only ordinary ability, is resolute and persever- 
ing, overcoming all obstacles in his path until success is 
attained. 

This story possesses the usual exciting and intere&„ng 
experiences that occur in the lives of all bright and active 
youths. In point of incident it is rather more than 
ordinarily realistic, as the two heroes in their experiences 
pass through the recent calamitous forest fires in northern 
Minnesota, and barely escape with their lives. 

The perusal of this story will not only prove fascinating, 
but its teaching will encourage young men to depend for 
success in life upon patience and perseverance in right 
paths, rather than upon great natural gifts, real or fancied. 

Sold by all booksellers, or sent, prepaid, upon receipt 
of price. 

The Penn Publishing Company 



933 Arch Street, Philadelphia 


Among the Esquimaux 

or, 

Adventures Under the Arctic Circle 

By Edward S. Ellis, A c M. 
Author of " The Campers Out,” Etc 
317 pages Illustrated 

Cloth, $1.25 

The incidents of this interesting 
story are laid in Greenland amid the 
snows, the glaciers, and the barren 
regions which have engaged the at- 
tention of explorers and navigators 

for centuries past. 

The main interest of the story centres about two 
bright boys whose desire for discovery sometimes leads 
them into dangerous positions. They visit an iceberg, 
and, while making a tour about it, their boat slips away 
from her moorings. After a number of adventures, they 
are finally rescued by a native Esquimau. With him 
and an old sailor who accompanied them them to the ice- 
berg, they go on a hunting expedition into the interior 
of Greenland, and there they have a number of most 
thrilling and exciting experiences, but none result seri- 
ously, and the whole party is eventually restored to home 
and friends. 

The story is sure to prove interesting to any reader, 
and the moral tone pervading it is such as will meet the 
approval of all parents. 

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of price. 

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The Campers Out 

OR 

The Right Path and the Wrong 

By Edward S. Ellis, A. M. 
Author of “ Among the Esqui- 
maux,” “Comrades True,” etc. 

363 pages Illustrated 

Cloth, #1.25 

This is one of the most interesting 
works of an author whose productions 
are widely read and deservedly popu- 
lar on both sides of the Atlantic. Mr. 
Ellis has in perfection the faculty of 
making his stories not only entertaining in the highest 
degree but instructing and elevating. A leading journal 
truthfully stated that no mother need hesitate to place any 
story of which Mr. Ellis is the author in the hands of her 
boy, for he is sure to be instructed as well as entertained. 

“ The Campers Out ” is bright, breezy, and full of ad- 
venture of just the right sort to hold the attention of any 
young mind. It is clean, pure, and elevating, and the 
stirring incidents with which it is filled convey one of 
the most forceful of morals. It traces the “ right path ” 
and the “ wrong path ” of several boys with such strik- 
ing power that old and young will be alike impressed 
by the faithful portrayal of character, and be interested 
from beginning to end by the succession of exciting in- 
cidents. 

Sold by all booksellers, or sent, prepaid, upon receipt 
of price 

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923 Arch Street, Philadelphia 


Andy’s Ward 

OR 

THE INTERNATIONAL 
MUSEUM 

By James Otis 

Author of “ The Braganza Diamond/ 5 
“ Chasing a Yacht,” etc. 

358 Pages Illustrated 

Cloth, #1.25 

A peculiarly fascinating narrative of the life and ex- 
periences of “ Museum Marvels.” They dwell in a house 
owned by a sword-swallower, whose wife, the ‘ ‘Original 
Circassian,” is entrusted with its management. But one 
of the company, a dwarf, nicknamed the “ Major,” insists 
upon taking charge, and the rest of the household, including 
a fat lady, a giant, and a snake-charmer, stand more in 
awe of him than of the owner of the house or his wife. 

Two boys, Andy and Jerry, are employed to wait upon 
this queerly assorted family. Their troubles with the dwarf 
and his pets, during which the boys are aided and coun- 
selled by the giant, makeup the lighter portion of the story. 

A tiny girl, who is even more of a dwarf than the 
“ Major,” is introduced to the household by Andy, who 
claims her as his ward, by virtue of a promise made to her 
brother when he was dying. 

The private life of the marvels, their amusements, their 
wrangles, especially the laughable encounters between the 
“ Giant ” and the “ Major,” form a most interesting story. 

Sold by all booksellers, or sent, prepaid, upon receipt 
of price. 

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Chasing a Yacht 

By James Otis 
Author of 

“ The Braganza Diamond,” ‘ ‘Andy’s 
Ward,” etc. 

35° pages Illustrated 

Cloth, $1.25 

Two boys have engaged to run a 
steam yacht for the double purpose 
of pleasure and profit, and after care- 
fully fitting her up they launch her, only to find the next 
morning that she is gone — stolen — as they later discover, 
by two other boys who had been refused a half-interest, 
in her. The rightful owners start in hot pursuit, and in 
an attempt to recapture the steamer are themselves 
made prisoners. It is the intention of the thieves to 
hold the owners prisoners until the Hudson River is 
reached and then put them ashore, but their plans mis- 
carry owing to the intervention of two rather rough 
citizens who find their way aboard the yacht and make 
themselves generally at home. Fortunately one of the 
owners manages to effect his escape, and gaining the 
assistance of the authorities the little vessel is speedily 
restored to them. 

The story is full of adventure, and the heroes are both 
bright and manly fellows, who make the best of their 
temporary hardships. The story will be found to enlist 
the interest at the outset, and to hold it until the last 
page is turned. 

Sold by all booksellers, or sent, prepaid, upon receipt 
of price. 

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The Braganza Diamond 

By James Otis 
Author of 

“ Chasing a Yacht,” “Andy’s 
Ward,” etc. 

383 pages Illustrated 

Cloth, $1.25 

Long before the opening events of 
this story the fragments of this cele- 
brated gem are supposed to have 
been taken from a wreck by an old sea captain, and 
secreted by him on a lonely island in Roanoke Sound. 

This aged captain, now quite feeble, sends for his niece 
and her daughter. They invite two bright boys to 
accompany them, and engaging a steam launch the four, 
in company with the owner — a trusty sailor — set out for 
the lonely island. Arriving there they are distressed at 
finding the captain already dead. To add to their dis- 
comfort they also discover that the former owners of the 
diamond have appeared upon the scene. The little party 
is forcibly made prisoner, and their captors demand that 
they forthwith produce the precious stone. This, of 
course, they are unable to do, but discovering among 
the old captain’s effects a curious cryptogram, they are 
led to hope that its solution may reveal the secret hiding 
place of the diamond, and thus restore to them their 
freedom. This theory eventually proves correct, but not 
until after the party has endured many hardships, and 
passed through many exciting experiences. 

Sold by all booksellers, or sent, prepaid, upon receipt 
of price. 

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The Moncasket Mystery 

AND 

How Tom Hardy Solved it 

By Sidney Marlow 
375 pages Illustrated 

Cloth, $1.25 

The tone of this book is earnestly 
and emphatically moral, and the au- 
thor understands that nothiug makes 
morality so attractive to youth as to 
find it coupled with ingenuity, energy, 
and pluck. 

There is no “ cant ” and no “ can’t ” about Tom Hardy, 
the decidedly vigorous hero of this story. He is a safe 
and worthy companion of any boy or girl, and it is pre- 
dicted that he will not only win a warm place for him- 
self in the hearts of all who make his acquaintance, but 
that he will gallantly retain it long after the covers shall 
have closed upon this chronicle of his efforts and adven- 
tures. He is an admirable boy, yet the author, in defi- 
ance of the usual method in modern juvenile fiction, has 
refused to sacrifice all of the other characters to the sin- 
gle hero. Even those whose parts are but the slightest 
have been so attractively presented that the reader feels 
that if the events had chanced to require it each one of 
them would have become a hero. 

Sold by all booksellers, or sent, prepaid, upon receipt 
of price. 

The Penn Publishing Company 

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Harry Ambler, and How He 

Saved the Homestead 

By Sidney Marlow 
350 Pages Illustrated 

Cloth, $1.25 

This is a narrative of a bright, ac- 
tive, and courageous boy, suddenly 
thrown upon his own resources and 
subjected to the malicious plots of a 
powerful enemy. The effectual and 
yet not unnatural manner in which the 
hero turns his enemy’s weapons to his own defence, con- 
stitutes, perhaps, the chief charm of the book. 

The story abounds in humorous and exciting situations, 
yet it is in no objectionable way sensational. There is 
nothing in it that will tend to create or encourage a taste 
for mere reckless adventure. 

The author has given more attention to the delineation 
of his characters than is usual in juvenile literature, thus 
making the story pleasant reading, even for those who 
have passed the outer line of boyhood. 

He believes in a “ moral,” but not in those bits of ab- 
stract virtue which are so frequently forced into juvenile 
stories, only to be “skipped” by the youthful reader. 
He would create a personal sympathy with the best ef- 
forts ofYallible boys and girls, rather than an admiration 
for the mere name of virtue. 

Sold by all booksellers, or sent, prepaid, upon receipt 
of price. 



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The Story of the Iliad 

FOR BOYS AND GIRLS 
By Dr. Edward Brooks, A. M. 
370 pages Profusely Illustrated 

Cloth Binding, $1.25 

This is a story of absorbing interest 
both to young and old. It relates in 
a simple prose narrative the leading 
incidents of one of the greatest literary 
works of the world — -the Iliad of Homer. Many of its 
names are household words among educated people, and 
its incidents are a constant source of allusion and illus- 
tration among the best speakers and writers. No one 
with any claim to literary culture can afford to be igno- 
rant of them. 

The object of the work is two-fold — first, to present to 
young people an interesting story which will be read 
with pleasure and at the same time cultivate a taste for 
good literature ; second, to give a popular knowledge of 
this famous work of Homer and thus afford a sort of 
stepping-stone to one of the grandest poetical structures 
of all time. 

It is thus a book for the home circle, and should be in 
every household in the land. It is recommended espe- 
cially for School Libraries and young folks’ Reading 
Circles, and also to schools as a Supplementary 
Reader. 

Sold by all booksellers, or sent, prepaid, upon receipt 
of price. 

The Penn Publishing Company 

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The Story of the Odyssey 

FOR BOYS AND GIRLS 
By Dr. Edward Brooks, A. M. 
370 pages Profusely Illustrated 

Cloth Binding, $1.25 
White and Silver Edition, #1.50 
The Odyssey of Homer combines 
the romance of travel with that of 
domestic life, and it differs from the 
Iliad, which is a tale of the camp and 
battle-field. Although the ancient author concentrates 
the attention on a single character — Ulysses — he re- 
fers to several beautiful women, including some of 
the goddesses. After the siege of Troy, Ulysses 
started on a voyage of discovery and adventure in 
unknown lands, which, although described with poetic 
exaggeration, “has been a rich mine of wealth for 
poets and romancers, painters and sculptors, from 
the date of the age which we call Homer’s down to 
our own.” 

In this wonderful poem lie the germs of thousands of 
volumes which fill our modern libraries. Without some 
knowledge of it, readers will miss the point of many 
things in modern art and literature. 

Ulysses was brave and valiant as a soldier, and was dis- 
tinguished for his wisdom and shrewdness which enabled 
him to extricate himself from the difficulties which to 
others would seem insurmountable. 

Sold by all booksellers, or sent, prepaid, upon receipt 
of price. 

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The Young Boatman 

By Horatio Alger, Jr. 

369 Pages Illustrated 

Cloth, $1.25 

This is an interesting story of a boy 
who is obliged to support himself and 
his mother by rowing passengers 
across the Kennebec River. To add 
to his trials, his intemperate step- 
father, after serving a term of im- 
prisonment, returns home and endeavors to compel 
the boy to pay over his small earnings to him. 
This the boy, who was appropriately nicknamed 
Grit, refuses to do, and after a struggle the stepfather 
retires from the conflict and returns to his thieving 
habits. 

Shortly after Grit discovers a conspiracy to rob the 
bank and promptly communicates his knowledge to the 
president, who succeeds in frustrating the plans of the 
robbers and secures their arrest. 

Grit’s cheerful manner and kindly good nature, 
coupled with the most sterling honesty, cause him 
to be held in high esteem by all who know him. His 
manly courage and self-reliance are often sorely tested, 
but his indomitable pluck transmutes calamity into suc- 
cess. 

The book is full of incident and adventure of just the 
right sort to hold the attention of any bright boy. 

Sold by all booksellers, or sent, prepaid, upon receipt 
of price. 



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The Odds Against Him, or 
Carl Crawford’s Experience 

By Horatio Alger, Jr. 

35 ° pages Illustrated 

Cloth, $1.25 

The hero of this story had to leave 
home on account of the ill-treatment 
he received from his stepmother, who 
had a son of her own about the same 
age. Dr. Crawford, a man of con- 
siderable wealth, but of weak, vacil- 
lating mind, loved his son, but was afraid to show his 
true feelings in the presence of his wife. After leaving 
home and meeting with a number of adverse experi- 
ences, Carl eventually obtained employment in a fac- 
tory. He soon gained the confidence of his employer, 
and after frustrating an attempt of the book-keeper to 
rob the safe, he was appointed as a traveler, and, visit- 
ing Chicago, he discovered that his stepmother had an- 
other husband living. Her success in getting a will 
made in her own favor, an attempt on the life of her hus- 
band, etc., are all defeated, and Carl came out victorious 
in the end. 

The book is full of bright, cheerful, and amusing inci- 
dents, showing that a boy of good, honest, sterling, in- 
dustrious habits can always secure friends, and succeed 
in earning a good living. 

Sold by all booksellers, or sent, prepaid, upon receipt 
of price. 



The Penn Publishing Company 

923 Arch Street, Philadelphia 


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